The Dragon in the North
by lisbei
Summary: Ramsay Bolton is gone. Winterfell is theirs. Jon is King, and Sansa is the Lady of Winterfell. What now? Jon wants to concentrate on the threat emerging from behind the Wall, while Sansa is more worried about the mortal threat. But there is something about himself that Jon doesn't know - and that will change everything. [post-Season 6] [spoilers all seasons]
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

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Jon was going to die. Not in the way all mortals died, in the fullness of time, but in the next few moments. He was sure of this.

His death faced him, in the form of a tall being with blue-white skin, long white hair, and frozen blue eyes. It resembled a man, yet was not a man. It parried his blows with insulting ease, no longer intimidated by Longclaw, not even surprised that his sword did not fall to pieces at the touch of its own great ice weapon.

And yet, the creature could hardly be called evil, Jon thought, even as he found it increasingly hard to fight it off. Instead, mortal men were the ones who kept betraying him, over and over. He'd not expected _this_ treachery either, though he should have, after his own brothers of the Night's Watch had cut him down.

Truly though, _this_ predicament was his own fault. He'd argued with Sansa against sending the Knights of the Vale back to their home. He'd protested that even if they could not trust Lord Baelish, surely Lord Royce would not betray them. Well, he'd been proven wrong. Again.

The great ice blade came down once more, faster this time, and Jon barely managed to deflect it, making the quick movement at great cost to his ribs, which were a burning mass of agony on his right side.

He knew he should attend to the fight, but to what end? Even if he defeated the White Walker, who was currently, Jon suspected, holding back from dispatching him, he was surrounded by a mass of wights, who would butcher him as soon as they were given leave.

The fight was eerily silent. The White Walker made not a sound as it swung and thrust, while Jon tried to suppress his own grunts and gasps, though it was hard. Every breath brought agony from his ribs, and a cut on his forehead was dripping blood into his eye. The wights were frozen in place, with only the occasional twitch to show that they were not lifeless. Jon could not bear to think that most of the wights were his own men, tricked and betrayed, abandoned by those who had been their allies – now imprisoned in an obscene mummery of life, forced to serve the Night's King until they fell to pieces.

Jon tried to remember how he'd arrived here, fighting White Walkers and wights on the wrong side of the Wall. The first strange occurrence was the trickling of people in ones and twos, begging for refuge in Winterfell, all with similar stories. Hamlets south of the Wall were emptying, half their population disappearing during the night, only to come back, dead-alive, to prey on the living.

Jon had decided – such a fool, he chided himself now – to take some men and investigate. Lord Baelish was leaving for the Vale at the same time, to inform Lord Arryn of their victory over Ramsey Bolton and the destruction of his house. Some horsemen and common soldiers had been left to aid Jon, and instructions were given to the Master-at-arms to obey Jon's commands.

Lies, all of them, Jon thought, as he tried to force his aching arms to hold off one more blow, to get through the creature's defences. Once they had arrived at the closest village to the Wall, nothing more than a huddle of houses, it started snowing, and the dead had attacked. The only men who stayed with Jon, and who'd been almost immediately cut down, were some scattered Northerners. He could still see the look of contempt on the face of the soldier of the Vale as he turned away from Jon – he'd even heard the man's words, though the winds were howling, then.

"The king has fallen! We must leave this place."

Jon didn't know if anyone had protested, unnerved as they'd been at the idea of fighting the creatures of legend they'd only heard of in old tales. So he'd watched all hope ride away, and had been left with this creature, whose expression, he was convinced, was one of barely concealed scorn. What did they think, these creatures? Jon tried to compel his flagging muscles to obey him, but he knew he was almost finished. He was just thankful that he'd insisted Tormund stay with his people, and that he'd left Ghost behind, guarding Sansa. Such a pointless death should only be his own. It was his due, as a man who never learned from experience.

An unearthly screech rang through the air above Jon's head, taking him by surprise. For a second, he thought it was another ice creature, and that he was truly doomed. But looking up at his opponent, he realised that the screeching sound had startled the White Walker, too.

In fact, Jon could hardly believe what he was seeing. The long spindly figure had stopped trying to stab him, and was looking at something in the sky, above Jon's head. But Jon didn't care to join the creature in its distraction. With his last strength, he brought Longclaw around in a wild swing, digging into the White Walker's neck, and caught the look of disbelief and rage in its frozen blue eyes in the seconds before it fell apart.

That was that. He was finished. Shadows passed over him, but he paid them no heed, and leaned heavily on his sword, thinking that poor Ser Rodrick would have had his balls for treating a Valyrian steel sword with such lack of respect. Still, it was no matter. The wights were starting to twitch awake, and would soon attack, even without orders from their master, who was currently melting into a puddle at Jon's feet.

The screech sounded again, closer this time. Jon thought he could also hear the flapping of great wings, but that was ridiculous. The sound was not of an eagle, or any great bird of prey, and he would know that better than anyone. He started to think that his wits were deserting him, along with everyone else, it seemed.

The falling snow had lessened since the White Walker had broken apart. For some moments, Jon still felt cold and he still saw his breath – his last breaths, he assumed. Yet, to add to the strangeness of that day, he could also feel himself getting warmer. What was happening? Was this the snow sickness? He'd heard that when you were close to death, you felt warm, even as you were freezing. But the warmth was coming from outside his body, he reckoned. Impatiently, he scrubbed at the blood and sweat in his eyes to try and see what was going on.

A blast of heat on his face made him recoil, and stare at the wights. They were on fire.

For a moment, they froze in place, but then they seemed to come to their senses, and still tried to run towards him, to do any damage to him that they could. When something white and impossibly huge came between them and Jon, he started to think that he was perhaps losing his faculties, especially when it lunged for the shrieking things, picking them up in its mouth and shaking them like a wolf would.

Soon, all the dead men lay in pieces on the plain. Some were still on fire. The clouds had vanished and it looked like a beautiful winter's day – cold but clear. So Jon saw everything distinctly, but still found it difficult to believe his eyes, and rubbed them again. There was nothing for him to fight, anymore.

The White Walker was gone. The wights were aflame. But who had saved him? Just as he was about ready to scream the question out loud into the air, his saviour landed in front of him, moving the earth all around, sending the mud up in great spattering gouts.

It was an enormous white and gold dragon.

Jon formed the words in his head, and even then could barely believe them. A huge dragon was standing in front of him, its strange eyes looking at him, as it crunched one of the wights in its massive fanged mouth. The look seemed apologetic – not that Jon was about to object. Something that size, with fangs that sharp, could eat what it liked.

Actually, the dragon wasn't really _standing_. More like crouching, he thought. It seemed to be lowering its head, and one enormous wing was stretched out, forming a kind of stair . . . Oh, no. No, no, _no_. By the seven hells, the old gods, _and_ the new, he was _not_ going to get on the dragon's back.

The look from its golden eyes seemed almost hurt, and Jon chided himself, until he wondered at his own thoughts. Could the creature read his mind? He sometimes felt like he knew what Ghost was thinking, and there were those who believed he warged into his direwolf, but what was reality, and what was fantasy, here? He almost snorted at his own idiocy. He was asking about reality and fantasy, when in front of him was a creature of legend, one which had not been seen for hundreds of years.

Jon sheathed his sword carefully, and approached the dragon, wincing at every movement. Every bone in his body ached, but he managed to lift a careful hand, and patted the enormous head around where he thought its ears should be. Ghost always likes that, he thought, feeling ridiculous. A sound came from the dragon. If he hadn't known better, he'd have called it a purr.

The big head nudged him, and an image appeared in his head – the back of a woman with long white hair, riding a huge black dragon, flying through the air. It was nothing Jon had ever seen before, and he bit his lip, considering, until he came to a decision. He called himself fool, and lackwit, but asked the question anyway, silently. Are you in my thoughts? He soon got a reply.

Jon was sure that the feeling of joy that washed over him was not his own, and he shivered. This was passing strange. The vision of the woman and the black dragon was replaced by others – two dragons, of varying sizes, flying, playing, fighting. And always the woman, with long white hair and purple eyes, watching them with the indulgent and loving eyes of a mother.

Do you want me to get on your back, he thought. The joy increased tenfold, and the images went by ever faster, with one thing in common – flying. So Jon resigned himself, and carefully clambered up on the dragon's back, trying to remember what the white-haired woman had been holding onto. Though who was he trying to fool? He knew very well who the woman was: Daenerys Targaryen, who styled herself Mother of Dragons, as well as many other titles besides. He ached too much to try and remember them all.

The big head turned and fixed him with its golden eyes, and he held on tight to the spines on the dragon's back. It seemed satisfied, and set off on an ungainly run, to gain speed, he thought. In spite of his exhaustion and pain, Jon observed that it used its wingtips for leverage, like a great bat, and had almost forgotten that it was going to launch itself into the sky. When it did, flapping its wings to gain height, Jon felt like every bone in his body was being shaken to pieces. But once the dragon had reached the clouds, it was more like he was riding one of them. The dragon did not bank and wheel as much as Jon imagined it would have, and he felt as though it was controlling itself for his sake.

Jon tried to look at the ground at it passed underneath him, but after a few moments, he gave up. Whether it was the pain in his ribs, or the unusual and perhaps terrible sensation of flying through the air, he felt a wave of disorientation and nausea that caused him to close his eyes. He held on tight to the dragon's spines, and wondered where it was taking him. Was this really happening to him? Was he dreaming all this? No, it couldn't be a dream – he'd never been in this much pain in a dream, without being woken out of it.

Afterwards, Jon was never sure how much time passed before the dragon started circling lower and lower. He lifted his head and saw, below them, a huge armed camp. Looking frantically from tent to tent, he eventually spotted a standard, just as the dragon landed with a great thump that rattled his bones once more.

Even though he'd expected it, the House device still made him groan – a red three-headed dragon on a black background. House Targaryen, of course. The dragon had landed in front of the biggest and most ornate tent, and Jon tried to gracefully roll off its back. He managed to land on his feet, but it was a close thing – he sank to one knee, but at least he didn't fall, he thought with relief. Feeling like an old man, he used the dragon to pull himself upright and looked up.

There was a semicircle of warriors around him, all pointing spears at him. They were mainly dark-skinned, and were wearing breeches and tabards, breastplates and helmets, but no other clothing besides. He idly wondered how long they would last in the North, once they got there. Because he clearly wasn't in the North anymore.

For Jon, this weather was almost balmy. He wondered how far south the dragon had taken him, and couldn't help wishing he'd kept his eyes open. He'd never seen the Neck, or anything south of Winterfell. Then he chided himself – he had better pay attention to what they wanted.

The leader of the strangely attired warriors yelled at him in a strange language, and jabbed his spear at Jon, who found himself becoming . . . angry. What was wrong with them? Why were they acting thus? He started warming up, and that was when Jon realised that once again he was sharing the dragon's thoughts. He had to calm the dragon down, but how could he do that? He started patting the dragon's neck clumsily, his pain and fatigue starting to get the better of him.

Suddenly, the main flaps of the tent opened, and a woman emerged, white-haired and purple-eyed. She swept her eyes over the scene in front of her – the angry soldiers, the angrier dragon, and him. Jon couldn't help a feeling of admiration when he saw how quickly she came to a decision.

 _"Dovaogēdys!"_

She had a clear voice which rang out over the camp and froze everyone in their stances, except the dragon, who was still rumbling angrily deep in his chest. _"Kelītīs!"_

Another of the warriors emerged from the tent behind her, and went for his sword as soon as he saw Jon, but Daenerys Stormborn, for it must be her, put a hand on his arm and shook her head. She murmured something to him, too faint for Jon to hear, and the warrior cracked out a couple of sharp commands at the soldiers, who retreated a few steps. The tent flaps opened again, and this time emerged a tall young woman and a short man. A very short man. Jon could hardly believe his eyes.

"Tyrion Lannister?"

The only Lannister who'd ever had time for him gave him what could be charitably described as a smirk.

"Well, if it isn't Jon Snow!"

Daenerys folded her arms and raised an eyebrow.

"So this is the famous Jon Snow, the King in the North. Tell me, Jon Snow, what have you done to my dragon?"

.

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.

 **Notes** :

It was hard to think of a title for this one, and even harder to think of a summary. I don't think 'the one where Viserion saves Jon's life' sounded very interesting!

I used Viserion because he's the white dragon (which has always been associated with Jon - he's called Snow, his albino wolf is called Ghost) and because he represents Drogo's sword, i.e. a warrior.

I decided to put in a sort of mental communication between Viserion and Jon - I'm going mainly by tv show events, and I don't see any other way to explain how Dany can control Drogon now, when she absolutely couldn't before.

Also, appearance wise - the characters look like the actors in the show. I mention the purple eyes for Dany, because that's a visual clue for Jon, but we're still talking Emilia Clarke and Kit Harington here.

This will absolutely contain a Jon/Sansa marriage and relationship, so if it bothers you, please don't read further. True, the story is mainly about Jon, how he finds out about who he truly is, and how it affects the war he's fighting, but eventually a love story will emerge.

Just remembered - I know Jon seems like he's blaming himself a bit too much, but he's just angry at himself.

Sorry about the long note - last point, I promise: The High Valyrian just means "Unsullied! Halt!", and I got it from the episode in which Dany frees the Unsullied in Season 3.

Hope you liked this chapter! In the next one, Jon makes new friends!


	2. Chapter 2

Note: Thanks for all the wonderful reviews, faves and follows - I'm amazed at the response! This chapter is so talky - so much talking! I promise there'll be action in the next one!

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 _"And now it begins," said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light._

 _"No," Ned said with sadness in his voice. "Now it ends." As they came together in a rush of steel and shadow, he could hear Lyanna screaming._ "Eddard!" _she called. A storm of rose petals blew across a blood-streaked sky, as blue as the eyes of death._

( _Game of Thrones, Chapter 39, Eddard X)_

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Chapter 2

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Daenerys Targaryen looked very much like Jon had expected. When he'd first seen her, through the dragon's eyes, she'd seemed rather blurred around the edges. The defining details were the same, though – long silver-white hair, purple eyes.

Jon knew he should be answering her question, but it had been an extremely long day, and the ground was starting to seem less steady than he'd initially thought. He held onto the dragon, who huffed encouragingly, calmer now. Jon cleared his throat.

"He saved my life. Besides," he scoffed, "what could I do to him? Look at the size of him!" He gave the creature an affectionate pat, forcing down an impulse to call the dragon a good boy, and scratch behind his ears.

A beautiful smile broke out on Daenerys's face – so he'd been right. Praising a woman's children was always the way to curry favour. He'd learned that dealing with Lady Catelyn, though that hadn't always worked. She'd been much more terrifying than Daenerys, dragons or no.

Jon turned to the dragon again, not sure if thinking at it was going to work again. "Why don't you go and get yourself something to eat?" The dragon huffed at him, and Jon was struck, again, by how huge the creature was. "He must be hungry. Or is it 'she'?" It was a ridiculous thought to focus on, at such a time, he knew.

Tyrion shrugged. "Eh. Opinion remains divided. One book even asserted that they are both male and female – I only ever read a fragment, as the work was destroyed by Baelor the Blessed, my Queen."

Daenerys gave a small half-smile, which seemed to say exactly what Jon was thinking: Tyrion and his books. She was so young, Jon realised. They were of an age, of course, but he felt like an old man right now.

"I've never thought of my dragons as anything other than male," she said, still smiling. She walked closer, and scratched the dragon's nose. He purred. "His name is Viserion," she added, and Jon nodded.

"After . . . Visenya?" he asked, tentatively, struggling to recall long-ago history lessons with Maester Luwin.

"And my brother, Viserys."

Viserion butted Jon in the side gently (gently for a dragon – Jon almost lost his footing) and turned around with an agility Jon hadn't expected in such a huge creature. He ran a few steps and then launched himself into the air.

Jon staggered again, and the pain in his ribs and other wounds washed over him like an enormous wave. He was sure he'd have fallen if someone hadn't appeared at his side and supported him.

He looked up into a frowning face.

"I am Grey Worm, of the Unsullied. If you try to hurt my Queen, I will kill you."

"Oh, don't mind him," Tyrion added. "That's just his way of saying hello."

"Is that the way he said hello to you?" Jon asked, trying hard to pretend he wasn't in agony.

They were walking carefully towards the Queen's tent. Jon wasn't sure if he was being treated like a guest or a prisoner – all he knew was that he needed to sit down, at least for a few minutes.

"Do you know, I can't remember? I must admit, we were in Meereen at the time. Terribly distracting place, Meereen." Tyrion turned to the tall woman who accompanied them. "Missandei, my dear, could you ask one of the Unsullied to fetch the Maester? Lord Snow – I beg pardon – his Grace needs his skills."

Missandei glanced at Daenerys, who nodded, and she left the tent for a few seconds. Then, what Tyrion said sunk in. Jon would have rolled his eyes except he was quite sure it would be painful. Everything hurt.

"Will you stop that? I never asked for it. I never wanted it." No, but you loved it, didn't you, his inner voice asked, and he couldn't lie to himself. How much better was King in the North than Lord of Winterfell, he'd thought, and for a horribly uncharitable moment, had wished Lady Stark back to life just to see her expression. Look, he'd wanted to say – your husband's bastard, a king.

"Yes, we were given a stirring account of the coronation by acclaim," Daenerys said, as if Jon hadn't spoken. Given, he thought. By whom?

The question must have shown on his face. Tyrion shrugged.

"Lord Varys knows all. And if you never wanted it, as you say, why not refuse the crown? The North hasn't had a king in hundreds of years – not including your late brother, of course."

Jon bristled. Not this argument again. Surely they knew why the North had to unite, why petty differences no longer mattered, why all their games, all their thrones, were nothing more than ashes, now.

"Surely you know why," he started, and then stopped himself. _Did_ they know why? They knew about the Lords of the North declaring him King, but that was just another part of their thrice-damned game of thrones. Then he remembered.

"My lady- your Grace," he said, turning to Daenerys. "You were with Viserion today. You flew overhead, and-"

A sudden wave of dizziness overcame him, and the twinge in his ribs threatened to flare up once more. But Daenerys nodded. She turned to Grey Worm, Tyrion and Missandei, who were looking at her with varying degrees of disapproval.

"My Queen, why do you put yourself in danger?" The young warrior looked and sounded the most reproachful of all, and she put a hand on his arm.

"I must know more about the land of my ancestors, Grey Worm, if I am to rule it." She sighed. "This morning I told you the dragons needed exercise, but in truth, I told Drogon to go as far North as he could."

Tyrion snorted and poured himself a cup of wine, then seemed to remember his manners, and offered it to Jon, who shook his head. He was already half out of his mind with pain; he need not be in his cups, too.

"I wanted to see the North – I was curious. It is already cold here, but past the Neck, my friends . . . " She shook her head. "It is buried in snow and ice. It is like nothing I have ever seen."

Tyrion looked knowing, but the two foreigners exchanged horrified looks. Jon was sure they'd thought this weather, which was comfortably cool to him, was the coldest they'd ever felt.

"We had passed over so many snowy fields, snowed in keeps, when Drogon started slowing and I prepared to turn around, when I saw . . ." She paused, whether for dramatic effect or in recollection, Jon could not be sure. "I saw a tall figure with blue-white skin, long white hair, holding a weapon made of ice. I saw a warrior fighting him. I saw the frozen dead standing around him, twitching. I saw things which, at first, I thought could not be real. It was only when we were almost back that I realized Viserion had not come with us."

The silence lasted a few seconds, and Tyrion was the one to break it.

"Your Grace, surely you cannot mean to say that-"

Jon had enough.

"I know you find this impossible to believe, but it is real. The White Walkers are real. The Night's King is real. He raises the dead and sets them against the living. They are coming. And all this," he snarled, waving around him, indicating the rich hangings, carpets, devices, all the trappings of wealth, of life itself, "will come to naught if we do not fight him."

Another silence fell after his last words. Jon was glad of it, because he was finding it hard to catch his breath. The quiet was broken by a very timid throat-clearing, but Jon was too tired to acknowledge it.

"Ah, Maester Wyllas," Tyrion said. "We need your skills, if you please."

Jon forced himself to look up into the worried eyes of a youngish man who was dressed like a maester, but seemed far too young to have gained all the links on his chain. Behind him stood a more impressive figure, who said nothing, but just raised an eyebrow. So that was Lord Varys, Jon thought – at least, he thought the man was Lord Varys. The rich robes, shaved head, and calm demeanour seemed to confirm it.

"My lord, um," the young maester started, and Jon immediately glared at Tyrion, who just lifted his hands and backed away, grinning. "If you could tell me where you are injured besides the cuts on your face . . ."

Jon nodded and winced.

"I think my ribs – I hope they're not broken, but every breath-"

He had to stop talking, but the young man got the idea. He called two of the Unsullied, to help Jon take off his surcoat and shirt.

"If the Queen permits," Wyllas suddenly said, with a worried look at Daenerys and Missandei, who exchanged puzzled looks.

Tyrion grinned. "The reason is decency."

Daenerys shrugged and Missandei still looked perplexed. Jon nodded at the young maester, and, together with the warriors, he helped Jon lift his arms and remove his shirt. The gasps that followed surprised Jon until he remembered. It had only been a few months since his sworn brothers had cut him down. The wounds had been healing very slowly, which had still relieved Jon, who'd started to fear that they never would.

The most shocked was Wyllas. His fingers hovered over the wound Olly had given him. "This would have pierced your heart! How is it possible?"

"So it _is_ true," Daenerys murmured. "You were raised from the dead."

Jon glared at them, the pain forgotten. "How is it you know every unimportant detail about me, but you do not know about the danger that faces us all?"

Tyrion raised his eyebrows. "It is unimportant that you were dead and now live?"

Lord Varys said nothing, but his eyes observed everything.

Jon would have shrugged, but Wyllas's hand on his shoulder dissuaded him. "Seeing as people still want to betray and kill me, yes."

The maester seemed to decide to concentrate on his work, and murmured something to his assistant, who immediately set off out of the tent.

"I have a salve which will help with the healing, Lord Snow. Now, about these ribs. I am afraid this will hurt a great deal. I can give you some milk of the poppy-"

"No!" Jon realised that had been perhaps too sharp. "My apologies. But no."

"Perhaps we can converse and distract his Grace from the pain," a slightly unctuous voice added. Jon shivered, involuntarily. Varys managed to be terrifying without a sword.

There was a sardonic half-smile on Daenerys's face. "Perhaps," she said. "Are you my enemy, Jon Snow?"

Silence fell in the tent. Jon, who could see Varys's expression clearly, noted the quickly suppressed eye-roll. He understood – this wasn't the type of thing which would have been part of playing the game in King's Landing. He was also relieved – he no more knew how to play this game than he knew how to dance a jig.

"I'm not sure, your Grace. It depends on where the Dothraki are at this moment." Jon was aware that Sansa thought he never listened when people talked about statecraft – but he'd bloody well listened when he heard tales of warriors who rode across the land, raping and killing as they went.

Daenerys smiled. "We sailed into Oldtown when the Ironborn were attacking. After we dealt with them, I sent the Dothraki to Pyke, to support Yara Greyjoy's claim to the Salt Throne. I may be young, Jon Snow, but I'm not a complete fool. But now that I've heard we will be facing an army of the dead, I am thinking that perhaps I should have kept them here."

Jon shook his head. He was trying hard not to think of Oldtown and the Citadel, Sam and Gilly. I'm sorry, Sam, he thought. But it cannot be helped. No more distractions.

Maester Wyllas was probing and pressing, feeling his side, and Jon had almost forgotten what it was like to breathe without pain. At one point, the young man pressed his ear to Jon's side. He then seemed to notice the people in the tent staring at him, and blushed.

"When there is a crack in the bones, certain sounds can be heard, while breathing." He cleared his throat. "But I can hear no evidence of that, my- your Grace." Ah, diplomacy, Jon thought. The young Maester made sure to face the both of them when he said that.

At an encouraging nod from Daenerys, Wyllas continued. "You are bruised, inside and out. Perhaps even a muscle is torn, or stretched. I will need to bind your chest tightly."

Jon nodded, resigned. He decided to answer the Queen's first question, properly this time. "I am not your enemy, your Grace, no matter what you think of me, or my family."

Daenerys leaned back, giving him a challenging look.

"My father killed your grandfather and uncle in the most savage way, I am told. Why should I not fear your family's revenge on mine?"

Jon sat up straighter, pushing Wyllas aside.

"When everyone in King's Landing wanted you dead, your Grace, my lord father was the only one who spoke against it. His words caused a rift between him and the king, and was the beginning of events leading to his death – no, his _murder!_ "

Lord Varys was looking at him with a hint of respect. Yes, we're not all clodhopping fools up north, Jon wanted to snarl, then collected himself. Daenerys looked pensive, not at all surprised. What was her game? What did she want? A slight sound to his right made him look into Wyllas's worried face. Jon gave a nod, indicating he should continue what he had been doing, although massaging a vile-smelling salve into his side was both disgusting and painful.

"I had been told that Lord Eddard was the most honourable man who ever lived, even if it led to his death." Daenerys spoke with a certain care.

Jon decided to take the compliment, and nodded, partly mollified.

"Now all I need to know is how it came that Viserion would stop and rescue you – I was not aware that dragons played the game of thrones!"

Jon shook his head, ignoring the slight spinning sensation that ensued. Should he tell them about the feeling of communicating with the great creature? He cleared his throat.

"It sounds like madness . . . but I could feel what he was feeling, at times. There were things I saw, which I had never seen before . . . "

"Things?" Daenerys's eyes were full of wonder.

Jon looked at her, and lowered his eyes. "You, your Grace. The other dragons. A big black one with red markings, and a green and bronze one. When they were much smaller."

The Queen smiled. "Viserion also showed me your image, fighting the ice creature. It appears he considers you as another dragon – perhaps a brother."

Wyllas, who'd begun to wrap Jon's chest tightly in bandages, started, sending an elbow into Jon's side. Jon saw stars for a moment, feeling his stomach rise into his mouth. As he stared at the young man, Jon noticed that he'd gone grey. Jon also realised that Lord Varys was looking at both of them with speculative interest. Tyrion narrowed his eyes. But the eunuch spoke first.

"It appears that young Maester Wyllas has something he wishes to share with us."

Young Maester Wyllas appeared to want nothing of the sort, Jon thought. He looked terrified, as though he desperately wanted to run from the tent. He cleared his throat nervously.

"It is nothing, my lords. Simply some mental exercises we are taught in the Citadel. A form of training. Uh. For the brain. "

If anything, the others in the tent looked more interested, and Jon could hardly blame them. What Maesters were taught, _how_ they were taught; it was a closely guarded secret. It was a mystery to him how Daenerys had even persuaded a Maester to come with her. The young man wet his lips, looking hunted. He swallowed.

"We are encouraged to reinterpret certain historical events – how they might have been changed if one element was lacking."

Wyllas paused, gave Daenerys a nervous glance, and continued. "What if Aegon the Conqueror had never left Dragonstone? What if there was no Andal Invasion? What if . . . what if Lyanna Stark died in childbed, and the babe lived?"

Jon was still caught up in the thought of the seven kingdoms under the king in the North, with no Targaryens ruling. But Daenerys gasped, and when he looked up, Lord Varys was nodding slowly. Tyrion's smirk had grown. He tried to recall the last few moments – something about Lyanna Stark, and a baby? But that was ridiculous!

"What of it, Maester? What if Lyanna died in childbed? There was no child – Lord Eddard found his sister dying, and brought her bones back to Winterfell. The only babe he brought back with him was- was . . . "

Jon fell silent. Tyrion's look turned pitying. No, it could not be. This was beyond belief. He was Lord Eddard's son. He _was!_ Simply because a dragon chose to save him, was not enough proof. Not when he compared it to his entire life, lived as the bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark.

"I am Lord Eddard's son. I am! All my life . . . " Jon spluttered to a halt.

"Did he ever tell you who your mother was, Jon?" Tyrion sounded gentler than before.

Jon tried to catch his breath, to marshal his thoughts. What was happening? This was madness! He knew who he was!

"Lord Eddard . . . he said he would tell me about her, the last time we met. He said we would meet again, and he would tell me about my mother." That day seemed so long ago. Jon could barely remember Lord Eddard's expression. "I never saw him again . . ."

Jon sat down heavily, hardly even aware that he'd stood up, in protest. His thoughts were whirling in his head, and he couldn't fix on one thing. All he could do was sift through memories in his head, trying to find one in which Lord Eddard had called him his son. Jon could not find a single one. Not once? Was it even possible? Could he have spent his entire life believing in something that had never been confirmed outright by the man who he'd loved as his father? So, what was he now? What did that make him? Jon groaned, inwardly. His whole life was a lie.

Jon tried to deny it, to himself, but it was growing ever more difficult. Others had called him Lord Eddard's bastard, Ned Stark's baseborn son – but never the man himself. He remembered their last conversation again: "You may not have my name, but you have my blood."

Why had he never asked what that meant? Now it all became clear – why he'd been brought up at Winterfell, when no lord brought his bastard to his own home, to be raised alongside his trueborn sons and daughters. Why he'd been barred from the high table when royalty came to visit. Why he could not go South with the rest of the family.

"I don't understand," Jon whispered, horrified at how broken his voice sounded. "Why did he never tell me?"

He looked up when a cup of wine was pushed into his hand. Tyrion was standing in front of him, and for once, the expression on his face was not sardonic.

"Ned Stark knew that the only way to keep you safe was to lie to you, I believe." Tyrion settled down next to Jon. "As well as everyone else. Turns out the honourable Lord Stark _was_ honourable, after all."

"But-" Jon still couldn't accept it. All his life, he'd lived with Lady Catelyn's hatred, with the contempt of everyone else.

"Jon, you never heard King Robert talking about Targaryens. You never heard his words when he was presented with the- with Prince Rhaegar's other children."

Jon looked around him and realised that he, Lord Varys, Tyrion and Daenerys were the only ones still left in the tent. He studied the Queen's face – his aunt, if he believed the madness that had been revealed here. There was a tightness in her expression, caused by the mention of Rhaenys and Aegon, massacred by the men in Tywin Lannister's employ. He knew that those killings were the first time Lord Eddard had walked away from King Robert.

"So, Jon, it appears I have a nephew – one who is older than me!" Daenerys was smiling, suddenly, and he tried to see if her smile was sincere, but he'd never been good at reading faces, especially women. "If we are to believe that, then you are the true heir to the Iron Throne."

Jon knew his eyes widened, and he was sure his expression changed, if Tyrion's sniggers meant anything.

"No! Even if I am Lyanna Stark's son, I'm still a bastard! I do not want the throne, I don't want any throne – I am not your rival, your Grace."

Tyrion opened his mouth to speak, and Jon aimed a blistering glare in his direction. He didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to hear what he was sure Tyrion had already thought of. Namely, that the Kingsguard, Ser Arthur Dayne, Lord Commander Hightower, would not be guarding Prince Rhaegar's mistress and their bastard in Dorne, if their lord was being massacred at the Trident.

Jon stood up, his ribs twinging, but not with the agony he'd felt before. So the Maester was skilled after all. He knew he should still be reeling from what he'd learned. But he did not have the luxury to wallow in his horror – and it _was_ horror. All his life he'd been told he was the son of the most honourable man in the seven kingdoms. To find out that instead he was the result of a union that had torn the lands apart, leading to terrible wars and countless deaths – that was hard. But his own pain was not important.

"It seems you are still most fortunate in your father, Lord Snow." Tyrion seemed to have finally realized that Jon did not appreciate what he considered empty titles.

What did Tyrion mean, though? Fortunate? A man who'd taken a young girl away from her family, got her with child, and left her to die alone? He'd been told stories of Rhaegar the abductor his entire life – and even if he hadn't, the statue of Lyanna in the crypt would be an eternal reproach of her fate. His mother, Lyanna. The thought hit him like a rock. He knew who his mother was.

"I have learned, Jon, that my brother Rhaegar was not the evil man he was thought to be by many." Daenerys's voice was gentle.

Lord Varys, who had kept silent till now, moved out of the shadows of the tent.

"Your Grace," he said, indicating Jon. "I knew your father, the Prince. One day, when we have more time, I will tell you of the Rhaegar I knew. He was a good man, a gentle man – unfortunately, a man controlled, for most of his life, by thoughts of a prophecy with which he became obsessed. As for the lady Lyanna – indications were that she did not want the match with Robert Baratheon, which had been planned for her."

Jon shook his head – he was trying to take all this in, but it was too much. He needed time, he needed rest, and he needed his home. But one thing he had to clarify before he left. If they let him leave.

"I need to make one thing clear, your Grace."

Daenerys inclined her head, looking every inch the Queen. And she could be – Queen of the world, for all he cared. Except for one part of it.

"The North will never again bow to the Iron Throne. We will not kneel to dragons, again. I am not Torrhen, nor will anyone else be in my stead."

Tyrion's lips were twitching with a suppressed smile, and even Daenerys's eyes crinkled.

Jon sighed. "Yes, I do realise that I am apparently a Targaryen. But I am also a Stark."

Daenerys nodded, serious again. Tyrion looked worried, but resigned.

"So, the same arrangement as with Yara Greyjoy, and Pyke?"

Daenerys quirked an eyebrow at Tyrion. "Wasn't it your father who said that you could never hope to conquer the North, Lord Tyrion, not without a loyal Warden to hold it for you?"

Tyrion nodded, reluctantly. Daenerys approached Jon, and held out her arm. He couldn't help a grin as he clasped it and she smiled at him.

"You will have to marry, of course, Jon." Tyrion couldn't help himself, it seemed.

The look of horror on Jon's face must have been clear, because Daenerys burst into giggles, seeming, once again, so very young.

"Not me, of course!"

The feeling of relief that washed over him was blissful, but Jon was suddenly worried that it was also insulting. "It's just that, being my aunt, you see . . ."

Tyrion nodded. "Besides, marrying a Targaryen will not help you hold on to the North. Have you thought of how you are going to deal with the Northern lords once they find out whose son you are?"

"Or are you going to keep it a secret?" Daenerys chimed in.

Jon shook his head. "No. No more secrets. Anyway, I'm starting to suspect that Lord Baelish already knows. Certain things he said, to Sansa; about the place of my birth." Jon paused, rubbing his eyebrow. A motherless bastard, born in the South, he was, according to Lord Baelish. Well, they would see about that. "And as his plan to kill me was unsuccessful, he will try to destroy me in other ways."

"So, you are convinced that this was Littlefinger's plan – to have you set upon by White Walkers?"

Jon thought about it. "At first I blamed Lord Royce, but what would it benefit him to have me disappear? No, this stinks of Littlefinger. And I will deal with everything, but I must leave now."

Daenerys looked wistful. "You will not rest here?"

"I beg pardon, my lady . . . aunt." Jon was tentative, but he needn't have worried. She smiled at him. "But I am worried about Winterfell, the soldiers of the Vale, the lords . . . and Sansa."

Lord Varys raised a knowing eyebrow. "You believe she is in league with Littlefinger?"

"No!" Jon spoke louder than he'd intended, and his ribs gave a warning twinge. Daenerys covered her mouth and Tyrion's lips were twitching. What was wrong with them? This was no jape. "Of course not! She's my – she _believes_ herself to be my half-sister. She would never betray me."

Even as he spoke, he doubted his own words. He would never tell anyone, though. Especially not virtual strangers.

"Speaking of Sansa," Tyrion said, clearly trying to change the subject, "I have this for her."

He handed Jon a cylinder, obviously containing a scroll, and continued.

"I have written a declaration which should be enough to dissolve our marriage, such as it was."

Jon felt a wave of gratitude wash over him, though he wasn't sure why. How did Sansa's marriage concern him? "Thank you, my lord. But what about the High Septon – the Faith? Will they accept this?"

Lord Varys and Tyrion exchanged a look.

"Much has changed in King's Landing since Lady Sansa was last there, your Grace."

The eunuch was addressing _him,_ Jon realised, and he tried to nod in the way he imagined a king did.

Daenerys chimed in. "Let us worry about the city, Jon. You are needed in the North. It is yours."

They stared into each other's eyes, and on impulse, he held out his hand. She clasped it, and rewarded him with a dazzling smile. Sansa would call him a fool, and say he'd been captivated by her fine eyes, and womanly curves, but he believed in her sincerity.

She smiled again, as a thought seemed to come to her. "I would offer you some of my best horses to get you back to Winterfell, but I believe there is a better solution."

The now familiar screech sounded in the air above the tent, and Jon couldn't hold back a groan.

"Why, nephew!" Daenerys had a twinkle in her eyes. "Poor Viserion wants nothing more than to take you wherever you want to go!"

"I am very grateful," Jon assured her. "Yet I believe my bones will never be the same again."

They all walked out of the tent, and sure enough, the white dragon was waiting outside. As soon as the dragon saw Jon, it reared up and screeched; in joy, not in anger. How Jon knew this, he couldn't explain, only that a feeling of happiness washed over him at the same time. Daenerys approached Viserion, and he put his great head down for her to stroke. Her eyes were shiny when she turned back to Jon, but her voice remained calm.

"Until we meet again, Jon Snow. I vow that once I have gained the Iron Throne, and have swept away those who usurped our family, I will join you in your war against the Night's King."

Jon inclined his head, unable to suppress a wish that she would join him now, rather than later. Yet he remembered what he had learned about Daenerys and Viserys Targaryen. All their lives, being told that the Iron Throne was theirs by right. He expected too much if he thought Daenerys would abandon it now that she was so close. Missandei approached the Queen with a leather bag, and Daenerys accepted it with a smile, turning and offering it to Jon.

"A gift, nephew. Open it once you are at Winterfell. You will understand."

Jon accepted it, and slung it around his chest. It was easier to get on the dragon's back the second time, and he settled comfortably, holding onto the spines.

Viserion ran the length of a tourney field, and launched himself into the air, rising with great strokes of his enormous wings. It was still dark, though Jon could see glimmers of light in the east as the dragon climbed higher.

Jon was not going to close his eyes, this time. He was determined to see what he could during this journey. He would also use the time to plan his next moves. He was a king, now; by right, as well as by acclaim. It was time he started acting like one.

.

* * *

.

Notes:

I decided that Daenerys, after 'speaking' to Viserion, wouldn't need much convincing as to Jon's identity.

As for Jon - this is actually a fact in the books: Ned never calls Jon his son. Not once.

It's the same kind of 'truth avoidance' which he used when he transcribed King Robert's will.

Also, Jon has bigger problems right now.

I might have been inspired by the scene in Aliens in which Ripley gets angry at some insurance people: "Goddammit, that's not all! 'Cause if one of those things gets down here then that _will_ be all! And all this...(Ripley grabs up a few pieces of paper) This _bullshit_ you think is so important... (Ripley tosses the scraps, scattering them) You can just kiss all of that goodbye!"

Next chapter: Jon returns to Winterfell.


	3. Chapter 3

Note: Thanks so much for your reviews, favorites and follows - I'm so thankful for each one!

* * *

 _He took hold of Ice with both hands and said, "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die." He lifted the greatsword high above his head._

 _(Game of Thrones, Chapter 1, Bran I)_

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Chapter 3

* * *

Even if he lived as long as Maester Aemon, Jon knew he would never forget his first conscious flight over the kingdoms; taking the raven's road to Winterfell. Viserion flew high enough that they would not be immediately visible from the ground, but not so high that he couldn't see the land from the air for the first time. Anyway, Jon thought, whoever would believe their eyes, if they looked up and saw a great white dragon flying overhead, after centuries without them?

Fields and forests, rivers and villages – all passed underneath the dragon with such speed that Jon could barely believe it was happening. There were stops for water, which hadn't happened before, because the dragon had felt the urgency of getting Jon to the Queen. But now, whenever they passed close to a stream, the dragon sent him an image of sparkling clear waters that said much more than words ever could.

Jon himself had been given some food and water, even though he hadn't asked for it. All he'd wanted was a simple, homespun cloak, having lost his own in the attack. He could tell the Queen was surprised, but Tyrion and Varys had understood that Jon wanted to approach Winterfell without fanfare. The eunuch's simple question about Sansa had raised some doubts in Jon's mind, even though he'd denied it out loud.

What if he was twice a fool, and arrived at Winterfell, only to find his friends dead, and Littlefinger ruling as King, with Sansa at his side? What if she'd been lying to him? She hadn't told him about the Knights of the Vale – the difference between them saving his life, and arriving too late, was such a stroke of luck, Jon could hardly even believe it had happened, even though it had happened to him. Once again he heard Melisandre calling him 'the Prince that was Promised', but he pushed it out of his mind. Sansa had no way of knowing that he'd still be alive once Baelish and the Vale got to Winterfell. Did she even care whether he lived or died?

Jon shook his head, amazed at his own idiocy. His feelings were hurt – that was it. He had done everything for Sansa, he thought. He'd won back her home, almost dying in the process. A nasty voice sounded in his head, reminding him that he'd been richly rewarded for it. Oh really, he thought? A king with no castle, wasn't that what he was? A sacrificial king, who'd almost certainly die in the war for the dawn.

Jon realised that a part of his irritation was almost certainly caused by a full bladder, and once he'd dealt with that problem, decided he would put everything else behind him. This included any thoughts of his true lineage, which needed to be saved for when he _wasn't_ riding a creature which could hear his thoughts. Viserion might not understand the human obsession with doubts and questions. Jon looked up, and the dragon was looking back at him, having finished drinking.

"You're right. Time to go."

The dragon huffed happily, and soon they were back in the air. It got colder and colder, and Jon grew glad of the heat which seeped through the dragon's hide and into him. The cloak was made for warmer climes, and did not much help.

After some time, the landscape below them started to look familiar, and Jon bade the dragon slow down. When he looked ahead on the road and saw what seemed like a broken down cart, complete with farmer attempting to repair the wheel, he indicated that Viserion should land gently, some distance away.

Night had fallen during their journey. It was a moonlit night, though occasionally obscured by some clouds. Jon tried to build a picture in his head, of a system of caves he knew of, a few leagues beyond the Wolfswood. He stroked Viserion's head, and hoped the dragon understood him, and tried to specify a time and place when they would meet again. The dragon nudged him, and Jon scratched his nose, as he'd seen Daenerys do. It huffed happily, then turned and launched itself into the air, circling twice, before flying off into the distance.

Jon trudged through the snow, towards where he thought the cart should be. Sure enough, there it was. He thought he was pretty quiet when he approached, but the cloaked figure crouched next to the wheel turned suddenly, aiming a crossbow at him.

"Take one more step, and you get it between the eyes!"

Jon was surprised that the voice was higher than he'd expected – it took him a few moments to realise why. The unknown carrier was a woman.

He raised his hands quickly, and managed to pull his hood down too. The woman moved closer, but there was no recognition on her face – perhaps because he'd untied his hair, or perhaps she'd never met him. She was around the age his father – his _uncle_ \- would have been, had he lived, heavy-set and homely. He spoke carefully, making sure that his voice sounded calm.

"I'm headed for the keep too – my horse threw me and ran away, but we aren't far."

"How do I know you aren't going to kill me and steal my salt-pork?"

Jon wasn't eager to give away his identity that quickly. Also, he hoped the cloak hid his sword. "You're the one with the crossbow."

She reluctantly conceded the point, but seemed equally reluctant to put the crossbow down.

"Are you going to sell that at Winterfell?" he asked, trying to distract her from thoughts of killing him.

She nodded. "I heard that the Starks are back. Never went to the keep after the Boltons took it." She turned to the side and spat, showing her opinion of all Boltons. He could only agree with her assessment.

"Let me help you with that wheel."

She sneered. "What would a lordling like you know about carts?"

Jon tried to avoid smirking at the thought of being called a lordling – Lord Varys and Tyrion had carefully hid their opinion of his thick Northern accent, but not well enough. Still, hers was even thicker.

"Might be I can surprise you."

He went around, and realised that the wheel was only stuck in the slush, not broken, but she didn't seem to have any planks to put under it. He put his shoulder to the back, and she went to the front, and with a bit of effort, and saying a quick prayer for his bruised ribs, he pushed, and the horse pulled. After a moment or two, with a loud sucking noise, the mud let go of the wheel.

The woman hoisted herself onto the cart and gave him a challenging look.

"Well? What are you waiting for?"

He grinned and pulled himself up the other side. "Decided to trust me, did you?"

"Well, once I heard your voice, I thought a proper Northern boy like you wouldn't try anything. Of course, if you do, I'll gut ya." The matter of-fact way she said it convinced him immediately.

"I'm Jenny," she continued. "Often known as pig-farm Jenny, but I'd prefer just Jenny."

"Jon," he said, and she gave him a sidelong look, then nodded.

"My husband used to make this trip, back when Ned Stark was still in Winterfell. But he broke his hip, and now it's up to me."

Jon nodded. They must have been desperate to send a woman on her own through the wilderness the North had become, crossbow or no crossbow. He surprised himself with thoughts of the future, after the Night's King had been defeated, of restoring the North to its former glory. Before, he'd had no hope that a victory was even possible. But now they had dragons! Well, dragon. And many conditions besides. If they managed to deal with Littlefinger. If the lords of the North even accepted a Targaryen as king.

"You don't say much, Jon."

He was shaken out of his thoughts, and blinked. He hadn't felt it was wise to consider his apparent heritage while on Viserion's back, not sure how many thoughts he actually shared with the dragon. But now he had to talk to this woman, at least until they got to Winterfell, and he saw the situation there.

"Sorry. It's been a strange couple of days." Jon shifted in his seat, trying not to wince. It would be some time before his ribs fully healed – Maester Wyllas had been against him getting on dragonback so soon.

She gave him a searching look. "There's been tales . . . saying that strange things are coming from beyond the Wall. And I don't mean wildlings, either."

Jon hesitated, unsure of how much to say. "Going to Winterfell is probably the best thing you can do, right now."

The hours passed without much chatter – only enough to keep each other awake as the night grew steadily colder. She told him about her children, who'd left the farm as soon as they'd been able, not that she blamed them, or so she said.

"Farming is a hard life," she said, shrugging.

Jenny didn't seem to notice that she was sharing much more than he was, or at least, she pretended not to notice. So he was relieved when the towers of Winterfell became visible in the distance.

Once the exhausted horse pulled the cart to the castle gate, Jon jumped down, and banged at it. It took a few moments before sounds above his head indicated that someone was peering down into the gloom.

"Who goes there?"

Jon was at the limit of his strength and endurance, now. He'd intended to pretend to be a lost traveller, and sneak in with Jenny, but he was tired. He looked up, hopefully into the eyes of whoever was guarding the walls of the keep, and holding a torch.

"Jon Snow."

The torch disappeared, and Jon could hear the sound of running. He turned to see Jenny staring at him, owl-eyed. " _You're_ the Bastard of Winterfell?"

"Aye." He didn't say more, though he wanted to ask her if she'd heard that he was king now, for all that was worth. He'd learned that all being king meant was that you were betrayed by a better class of people.

There was more running above his head, and a mad scrabbling at the gate in front of him. Just as a familiar lion-maned head craned over the battlements, the gates burst open and a massive white wolf threw itself at his head and bowled him over.

Jon lay on his back, grinning, as Ghost thoroughly washed his face. "I see you've missed me at least, boy."

Tormund came running through the gates, pulled him up, and crushed him in a bear-hug. "Jon Snow! You are the luckiest man I ever met!"

Jon groaned, and Tormund pulled back, worried. "It's nothing," he assured the wildling. "Just some bruised ribs."

The leaders of the mountain clans, those who'd survived the battle, at least, followed close behind. Jon could hear the whisper going around, or what they thought was a whisper: 'The Jon is returned!' He remembered suddenly: they used to call Lord Eddard 'the Ned'. He had to blink rapidly to stop the tears, and thanked the gods for the sight of Ser Davos running towards them. He remembered he'd asked the Onion Knight to be Castellan of Winterfell, and realized what he needed the man to do.

"Ser Davos, this is Jenny," he said, indicating the farmer, "I believe she has some very welcome provisions to sell."

Davos nodded, and called some of the men to help unload the cart. He himself took Jenny to meet the cook, who was more of an expert on fair prices for food. Jenny looked like a woman who enjoyed a good haggle. She left, but not before looking at Jon with narrowed eyes, followed by a nod.

Jon waited until he gauged Davos was out of earshot, before he turned to Tormund.

"Those men of the Vale who came with me . . . did they return?"

Tormund's eyes narrowed. "Not all of them. The Master-at arms and a few foot soldiers."

A sudden noise at the far end of the courtyard drew Jon's attention – Sansa and the other Northern lords were spilling out, looks of joy on their faces. Sansa's face was masked, though. She'd never again shown that pure unfiltered joy as she had at Castle Black.

Jon murmured to Tormund, before he approached the Northern lords. "Have them arrested, and put in irons. Quietly, now. Get some of the lesser lords to assist you – Wull, and Liddle, maybe."

Tormund raised his eyebrows, but nodded. "And that Royce kneeler?"

This time it was Jon's turn to show surprise. "He's still here?"

"Aye. Lord Baelish insisted that he had to stay – to make sure the Vale's interests were safeguarded. Whatever that means."

Jon sighed. He was going to have to show his hand. Was it too early?

"Let me deal with Royce," he said, almost under his breath, and then strode forward to greet the people who were oh so happy to see him alive, he thought, wondering when he'd become so cynical.

Lord Manderley was the first to get to him, fast in spite of his girth. He made as if to clasp his hands, then dropped to one knee.

"Your Grace. I knew you could not be dead."

Jon lifted him, and shook his head at the others as they started to kneel, too. They would come to regret any respect they'd given him soon enough. No need to give them more to chastise him with. Everyone was there, except Lady Mormont. The dragonflight had taken an entire day into late evening and the cart-ride to Winterfell had taken the rest of the night, and they probably hadn't woken her, he thought. The sun was rising again.

Sansa approached, her face impenetrable. He inclined his head and she curtseyed. He almost winced. That was her greeting to him? Treating him like a stranger, like King Robert. Oh, stop being a fool, he told himself.

Tormund came back from the task Jon had given him, and gave him a small nod. He wanted to rest, to start explaining, to tell everyone what had happened, but a wave of exhaustion and hunger stopped him in his tracks. When he raised his head, he realised that Sansa was staring over his shoulder – no, she was staring _at_ his shoulder, at the cloak she knew very well he hadn't had when he left Winterfell. Perhaps he should have gotten rid of it on the road.

"Jon – your Grace – when is the last time you ate something?" Sansa sounded cool and collected, though there was a hint of worry in her tone.

He shook his head. "I'm not sure."

She nodded, and addressed the rest of the Lords. "My lords, let us break our fast together."

An hour later, they had all eaten to completion. Jon was surrounded by a group of the Free Folk, all happy to see that he lived. He knew why – he was perhaps the only one of the gentry who wanted them around.

Jon managed to observe the other lords. Royce wasn't with them. Had he gone to look for his men and not found them? Just as the thought came to him, Royce burst into the great hall, startling the guards into wakefulness. Jon shook his head when one of them met his eye, and they relaxed, but kept a watchful eye on Lord Royce, who didn't notice.

"Your Grace, I must protest." The man was as loud as ever, Jon thought, and he didn't consider it necessary to kneel. Not that Jon wanted to be knelt to. But he did realise that any lack of respect shown to him made it easier for him to be disobeyed. Royce continued, ignoring Jon's lack of response.

"The Master-at-arms and some men of the Vale have been put in irons! On what charge, your Grace? By what right?"

There were gasps in the great hall at the Vale lord's last words, and both Ser Davos and Tormund made to get out of their seats, but Jon waved them off.

"I will give you time, Ser, to consider and rethink your last words. As for the arrest of your men: the reason, my Lord Royce, is that I was betrayed and left to fight against the White Walker alone."

"I cannot believe this, your Grace." Royce's face lost colour as he seemed to hear what he'd just said. That's twice he's insulted me, Jon thought, in disbelief. He almost could hear Sansa's voice in his head – hold on to your temper, Jon. "I mean, I don't want to say that you are lying, just that-"

Jon decided to make it easier for him. "I think that after some time spent in chains, the Master-at-arms will tell us why he found it necessary to tell his men that I was dead, and ride away."

Royce bowed his head, and finally gave in to some of his other Knights, who had been trying to get his attention ever since he'd first chid Jon. There was a murmuring in the great hall, as everyone seemed to give their opinion on what had occurred. But no-one tried to contradict him, Jon realised, or tried to challenge his decisions. It occurred to him – the Knights of the Vale had been the last to arrive at the battlefield. They'd had no significant losses, and, even though they'd saved the day, were not much liked or respected by the Northerners.

"Your Grace, perhaps you need to rest for a while."

Jon stared at Sansa in disbelief. She'd always called him Jon, before. What was this sudden formality?

She managed to slide her eyes sideways, at the Northern lords, and he understood. But was the North really that formal, or was she just aping what she'd seen in King's Landing? No matter, she was right. He was exhausted. His ribs were starting to pain him, again, and he needed to lie down.

Sansa followed him out of the door and they went to his room in silence. Just before he went in, she put a hand on his arm. When he looked at her face, he was aghast to see tears in her eyes. As his own widened in understanding, he had a few moments' warning before she flung her arms round his shoulders and clutched him desperately.

"I thought you were dead, Jon! You can't do this to me! We just found each other, I can't lose you, too!"

"Hush, hush." He soothed her, stroking her hair. "I am well."

She sniffled, pulling back, fixing him with a scornful look. "Well? You look like death, Jon. We have to kill Littlefinger, do you hear?" She was incandescent with rage, and a faint thought in his head mused that she'd never been more beautiful to his eyes. Then he pulled himself together. This was his _sister_ he was lusting over! Well, no, the voice added. Not his sister.

"We will kill him, I swear it," he assured her. He turned to go into his room, and then turned back. "Uh, Sansa?" She looked at him, expectantly, and he hoped he wasn't blushing. "Could you ask someone to help me get my shirt off? With my ribs, I find it hard-"

She waved to cut him off, and nodded, quickly turning away. It was strange, though, he thought. Now she was the one who was blushing – he could only wonder why.

When Jon woke, many hours later, he felt strange at first – he wondered when it had become so warm at Castle Black. Then, like a huge fist made of snow and ice, everything came crashing down on him. The last of all was the revelation of who he was – not a true Stark but one of the last of the Targaryens.

After using the chamber pot, he managed to stagger to the door, and ask the guard what time it was. After hearing that it was almost morning, he was amazed – he'd slept a whole day and a night. He felt as normal, with only a slight ache to show for his injuries. There was still an hour before daybreak, so he padded back to the wardrobe to find some clean clothes to wear, and almost stumbled over the bag Daenerys had given him.

Well, he was at Winterfell now, so he might as well look inside. He took out Tyrion's letter first, wondering when he'd have the opportunity to show it to Sansa, and then found what Daenerys had left for him.

There were two cloaks in the bag – both black, with a red, three-headed dragon stitched into them. They were Targaryen cloaks. He'd noticed that the device was everywhere in the Queen's camp, and no doubt she'd had cloaks made too. This device hadn't been seen in the seven Kingdoms for over twenty years, he mused, fingering the careful stitching. He understood why she would give him one – she probably felt he needed the reminder of his father and his line, rough Northerner that he was.

But why two, he thought? What was she trying to tell him? A subdued knock on the door made him stuff them back in the bag, and push it under his bed. He'd think about it later. Right now he needed to get dressed, and see to the problems from the Vale.

An hour later, he was standing in the courtyard. The Northern lords were all amassed around, and Sansa was watching from a balcony, together with Lady Mormont, and the Maid of Tarth. The Master-at-arms and the Vale foot soldiers were brought out. None of them would meet his eyes, except the master. And Jon knew – this one was guilty.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself, ser?"

Jon felt a strange sensation, like he'd been here before – and he had. How many more men was he going to have to execute, before they finally accepted what needed to be done?

The Master-at-arms glared at him. "You're nothing but a jumped-up bastard. Not even a real Northerner. You let the Wildlings through the Wall, bastard. You're not fit to be king."

So, he wasn't going to implicate Lord Baelish, even though Jon was sure this was all his plan. Something of the man's words stirred a memory in his head. Ramsey's letter. That's what it reminded him of. Maybe Littlefinger's plans reached further back than just leading him into a trap – maybe they involved spurring him to get Winterfell back, and then having him killed, so he could swoop in for Sansa. No matter.

"Ser Davos, fetch me a block."

Davos nodded, and ran off to get one. No-one else spoke. One of the other soldiers was quietly sobbing, but the Master-at-arms said nothing, just looked at Jon, hatred burning out of his eyes.

"The blood of the First Men flows in the Starks," Jon continued, locking eyes with Sansa, who gave him a slow nod. "We hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword."

He drew his sword with a flourish, and Ser Davos placed the block in front of the Master-at-arms, while two of Jon's men pushed him to his knees, and then stepped aside.

"By the word of Jon of the House Stark, King in the North, I do sentence you to die."

Jon brought Longclaw down and the man's head rolled into the snow.

He could see Sansa, Brienne, and Lady Mormont from the corner of his eye, and noticed that neither averted their eyes. The other soldiers from the Vale dropped to their knees, pleading for mercy. In particular, the one who had been crying caught Jon's attention.

"Please, your Grace, mercy! It was Lord Baelish who convinced – him! I swear it was! We could no more disobey him than we could our liege Lord! I beg you, mercy, your Grace."

Jon locked eyes with Lord Royce, whose face was a picture of horror and despair. And he came to a decision, handing his sword off to Tormund, to have it cleaned. The soldiers almost collapsed in relief, though Jon wasn't sure if they would be as relieved once he pronounced sentence. They couldn't stay here.

"You will go to the Wall. You will take the black. Believe me, this is mercy. And it is your last chance." Jon turned away, not wanting to see any more. He'd probably pronounced a death sentence anyway, if the White Walkers had really breached it. Lord Royce grabbed his arm, frantic with relief.

"Thank you! Thank you! So merciful, so wise," he babbled, and Jon found himself wanting to comfort the man, but restrained himself, just replying with a short nod.

The next few weeks were spent planning, and letting his ribs recover. Jon wasn't sure whether he was just delaying telling the other Lords his news, or whether he was using a strategy. Still, there was enough to be done with reclaiming the North, reuniting it from the disastrous state it had been left in after the Boltons' rule.

The Dreadfort, the Karhold and the Last Hearth needed to be settled with Jon and Sansa's allies. Representatives needed to be sent to Greywater Watch. And strange rumours were coming out of the Riverlands, with the Twins, in particular, being the centre of some bizarre talk. Of course, once the time was right, Jon knew he would be flying there, on Viserion, to deal with Walder Frey and try and get the Reeds on their side. First he needed to tell them the whole story, and he found himself strangely reluctant.

One afternoon the talks had ended early, and Jon decided he needed to do something he'd been putting off, so he went with Ghost to the crypts underneath Winterfell. The tombs of the most recent Stark dead were closer to the entrance, and he didn't have to walk for long before he reached Rickon's resting place. The stone looked new and raw, and Jon had to brush away a tear as he thought of the active and happy child that he remembered, locked away forever in this dark and gloomy place.

Jon moved further in, and stood in front of Lord Eddard's statue for a long time. He wanted to scream at him, beg him for answers. Why couldn't he have told him the truth? Why had Ned let him exile himself to a life in what was essentially a prison, when he'd committed no crime?

Jon shook his head, and took a couple of deep breaths. Then he turned to the only statue of a woman, close by. Lyanna Stark. His mother. He looked into the stone face and tried to see some of his features there, but couldn't. He'd heard say that Arya resembled Lyanna most, but Arya had been no more than a child when he'd last seen her. He didn't even know what she looked like, now.

He passed a gloved hand over the carved hair, and wished he had a painting instead, but he could guess a few things. Everyone knew what Rhaegar had looked like – what all Targaryens looked like. Fair hair, purple eyes, tall. So he must resemble his mother – dark hair, dark eyes. He sighed. He would find nothing here. He didn't know what he'd expected – some hidden object which would tell him something, anything. But that was nonsense.

Ned Stark had made himself the guardian of a secret that could be the death of his entire family and the end of his line. It would have been madness to leave any hint in the crypts for anyone to find.

Jon wanted to pray, but ever since he'd been brought back from the dead, had found it too difficult to believe in anything beyond what he saw with his own eyes. Still, he was about to at least try, when voices from the entrance stopped him. In the distance, he could see a flickering torch, and soon the voices became clearer. Ghost wasn't worried, though, so neither was Jon.

"My lady, I wish you wouldn't try to leave the keep without me."

"Brienne, this is my home! There are no more Boltons left to harm me!"

Sansa must have had the same idea as him, Jon thought. He was glad Brienne thought to accompany her. He was so relieved when Brienne of Tarth finally returned from the Riverlands – no-one was getting through her to harm Sansa. He wasn't even sure he could beat her in strength – maybe in speed, though.

"This is your home, my lady – but right now it's full of soldiers. I don't trust them," Brienne continued, darkly.

Sansa chuckled. "Do you trust anyone?"

Brienne made a sound which indicated that no, she didn't. Jon couldn't blame her. After what had happened to Sansa, after what had happened to Brienne herself (soldiers were terrible gossips, Jon mused, and the tales of the Maid of Tarth and the Kingslayer had started circulating as soon as she and her squire had ridden through the gates), after what he'd witnessed in Craster's Keep, he wasn't inclined to trust any man, either. And he _was_ one.

They came closer, and Brienne glimpsed him, immediately putting a hand on her sword. Then she recognised him, and bowed.

"Your Grace."

He nodded, and Ghost ran to Sansa, panting happily. She patted his head and smiled, at Jon too.

"I didn't know you were down here, Jon. I'm sorry, I didn't want to disturb you."

Jon waved this away. "It's no trouble, Sansa. I just wanted to see Rickon's tomb. And I've never seen Lord Eddard's statue." He was glad he'd always spoken formally about the man he'd thought was his father – it made it easier to avoid lying outright, now.

Sansa nodded. "Of course, you haven't been here in years." She looked at the statue of Lord Eddard and sighed. "It doesn't look like father at all. Makes you wonder how close any of these statues are to the real people who inspired them. Take Aunt Lyanna, for example," she said, and Jon had to bite his lip to avoid a gasp. It was as if she read his mind, but she couldn't, could she? No, she couldn't. She hadn't even noticed that he'd frozen in horror, though he was pretty sure that Ghost gave him a curious look.

"I mean, father always said that Arya reminded him of her. But Arya looks nothing like this."

Jon nodded, once again amazed that their thoughts were going in the same direction. But he was sure Sansa wanted to be alone in the crypt, so he said his goodbyes, and left, Ghost padding after him. He had his own plans for the rest of the afternoon.

It had been clear to Jon for a while, that he needed to introduce Ghost to Viserion, and he was sure he'd been putting this off, too. But it had to be done. He didn't want Ghost to attack the dragon, and get himself burned to a crisp. If only he knew how much Ghost understood, and how much was just his own warging, if he'd ever done such a thing, and it wasn't just his imagination.

When he went riding that afternoon, he took Tormund with him – both at Ser Davos's insistence that he could not ride out without protection, and to share all his new knowledge with the man. He knew that of all the people at Winterfell, Tormund and his people were the only ones who didn't care whose family he belonged to. For them, one kneeler was very much like another. In fact, they might like his new family better – it wasn't a Targaryen who'd trapped them behind a seven hundred foot wall for thousands of years.

After they'd ridden to the edge of the Wolfswood, Tormund's sidelong glances started to annoy Jon.

"What?"

"Well, you've been strange since you came back, King Crow." Tormund ignored Jon's eye-roll, even though he couldn't suppress a grin. "I've been learning about your games of thrones, and this would be the part where the king takes the inconvenient visitor out to have him killed."

Jon sighed. "Who have you been talking to, Tormund? Of course I'm not going to have you killed. You're the only one I can trust right now."

Tormund preened, even though he seemed surprised.

Jon went on. "There's something I must tell you, because I know it won't turn you against me."

He pulled on the reins at the edge of the wood, and Tormund followed suit, dismounting alongside. Ghost, who'd run ahead, doubled back, and raced up to Jon, happily. The direwolf really needed more exercise, Jon thought, sadly. He shouldn't be kept cooped up at Winterfell for so long.

"Tormund, what do you and your people know about the Targaryen line, and how it came to an end?"

Tormund's eyebrows rose. That wasn't the question he'd been expecting. "My people know little, and care even less. I know something. Dragonfolk, they were, though the dragons died out long ago. And the Dragon kings themselves were overthrown . . . some years ago, now?"

Jon nodded. "One and twenty." He walked up and down, trying to find a way to explain. "Tormund, how do you think I got away, after the Vale knights left me there?"

Tormund looked even more puzzled. "Your horse . . ."

Jon shook his head. "My horse was cut to pieces out from under me. There was no-one. Except . . . "

Jon rubbed at his eyebrow. Talk was pointless. He'd show them everything, and let them come to their own conclusions. He crouched down and looked deep into Ghost's eyes, begging him to understand. "Ghost, you must be calm when he comes. You must not fight him."

Jon looked up, and saw that Tormund was just beginning to open his mouth to speak, when the screech sounded all around him. Perhaps because he'd been warned, perhaps because Jon was holding onto his scruff with a convulsive grip, Ghost didn't react, just gave the circling dragon an incurious look, and sat down with his paws extended, like a statue.

Viserion was ecstatic. Jon could tell, because the feelings of bliss were washing all over him, and he had to stop himself from grinning foolishly. Sansa always used to tell him he looked like a simpleton when he did that.

Tormund stared at the dragon, mouth gaping. "That's a bloody huge dragon!"

A few hours later, riding back through the Wolfswood, Tormund still looked stunned. He caught Jon's sidelong glances.

"That was a bloody huge dragon, Jon Snow."

Jon nodded. Tormund was right. Viserion was a bloody huge dragon.

Tormund beamed, and shook his head. "Your Northern lords are going to shit themselves when they see this, Jon."

"As long as they don't kill me for not being a Stark, I don't care what they do," Jon sighed.

Tormund snorted, and shook his head. "As long as that dragon's with you, no-one's getting anywhere near, Jon. A bloody huge dragon."

Jon couldn't help chuckling, and Tormund burst out laughing. They raced each other to the keep, Ghost keeping pace with them, and Jon felt some of the heaviness leave him, for a while.

To his great surprise, it didn't take Jon that long to persuade the Northern lords, and Sansa, to come riding with him, the next afternoon. He realised that the real obstacle had been his own fear of being rejected. Particularly by Sansa, he thought. Even though Sansa had told him that Bran was still alive, somewhere, and Arya had been sighted by Brienne, he still felt that Sansa was the only family he had left. That must be why it was so important for him that Sansa accepted him, even though he wasn't really her half-brother.

They rode along, all enjoying the crisp weather. It was a beautiful sunny day, though the fields and the trees were all covered in snow. Once again, they rode for an hour out of Winterfell, until he could be sure that they were not visible from the Keep. The lords and ladies were one thing, and could be relied upon not to panic. He wasn't so sure about common soldiers and servants.

Ghost ran alongside them, and ahead of them, until he seemed to choose a likely open spot, and sat down, though not before giving Jon a knowing look. Jon slowed his horse down, and stopped, dismounting. When the others caught up, they gave each other puzzled looks, but dismounted also.

Tormund took charge of the horses, leading them to a nearby coppice, where they could be tied up – Jon didn't want the horses to panic. Ser Davos looked almost hurt at that, and Jon felt sorry for him, but didn't regret his decision to include Tormund and not the Onion Knight. Sansa, likewise, was also puzzled, and Brienne was already starting to finger her lion pommel – he wanted to tell them they'd spent too long in King's Landing, but thought it better to hold his peace.

"My lords, and ladies: I must admit I have not been completely honest with you. The ride was a ruse to get away from the keep, and the eyes and ears within."

They exchanged looks, but only Lady Mormont spoke her mind. "Do you suspect spies at Winterfell, your Grace?"

"Aye," he answered. "I've learned that not expecting the worst from Lord Baelish is something only a fool does." He looked at Sansa, and was relieved to see a little half-smile on her face.

"Besides," he continued, "I finally have something he knows nothing about, and I have no intention of giving up this advantage before it can be used."

It was time. He could already feel the warmth growing inside him, the joy washing over him. Also, Ghost was looking as contemptuous as a direwolf could – seeming to say that he had to tolerate the dragon, but he didn't have to like him.

"My lords, my ladies – you must keep calm now. No swords, no spears," he said, thankful that he'd dissuaded Lord Royce from bringing some knights along.

The screech was as loud as ever, but at first the lords did not realise that this was what Jon was preparing them for. It was only when Tormund looked towards the sky, and Brienne looked to see what he was looking at, that the others gazed up, and saw a circling dragon.

Viserion seemed to sense the importance of the occasion, or else he was preening. He wheeled and turned, effortlessly for such a huge creature. He flapped his great wings, sending gusts of wind to tousle Sansa's hair and cause her cloak to billow behind her, and Jon gave the dragon a suspicious look.

Finally, Viserion landed with a great thump next to Jon, who patted his great head. The silence was only broken by the bellows-like breathing of the great creature.

"That's a dragon!" Ser Davos spoke first, his voice shaking.

Jon nodded.

"Oh, Jon," Sansa said, tears in her eyes, "he's so beautiful." Jon felt a wave of warmth wash over him, and this time he couldn't blame Viserion. She accepted him!

But he knew seeing the dragon wasn't enough. He knew he had to explain further.

"When I was left for dead, near the Wall, facing a White Walker and his wights, this dragon saved my life. He took me to his mother, Queen Daenerys Stormborn, thought to be the last Targaryen."

The Northern lords looked stumped. Lord Manderley was the first to recover, though Sansa looked like she had worked it out already.

"Thought to be, your Grace?"

Jon sighed. "I wish you wouldn't call me that, especially now." Now Lady Mormont seemed to understand, and her eyes widened.

"It has been made known to me, that I am not the son of Lord Eddard Stark, but of Lyanna Stark."

"And Rhaegar Targaryen," Brienne murmured, with awe in her voice. Jon raised an eyebrow. He wouldn't have expected Lady Brienne to have a fondness for the tales of the last Dragon Prince, but perhaps the stories were told differently in the Stormlands.

"Jon, how do you know that this Daenerys isn't just trying to use you for her own ends? How do you know she isn't trying to trick you?"

Jon had been expecting this question, though not from Sansa. "She could have had me killed as soon as I arrived in her camp, Sansa, far away from here, and no-one would have known."

Gasps and a blast of heat from his side caused him to turn to Viserion, who'd just expelled a gust of fire into the air. The dragon's eyes were like golden pools, and they told Jon that Viserion would never have let that happen. My life for yours, he thought he heard a voice say, and he patted the dragon on the nose. I know, brother, I know, he thought, hoping that the dragon would understand.

Silence fell in the clearing. The Northern lords exchanged looks, but said nothing. Jon wasn't sure what to do next. He fingered the strap of the bag he'd brought with him, but wasn't sure that it would help. What was he supposed to say: look, I've got some cloaks?

Jon staggered. Something had nudged him in the back, and when he looked behind him, he realised that an enormous dragon's head still managed to look hopeful. The dragon wanted to fly, he thought. Jon decided to give in. Besides, they needed to talk outside his presence, and outside Viserion's presence. Forming lucid thoughts wasn't easy, the first time you met a dragon. He knew that from his own experience.

"I think you need time to talk amongst yourselves, sers," Jon said, as he vaulted on the dragon's back.

Viserion took off, joyfully, and was soon airborne. Jon relished the feeling of flying like he'd never even suspected he would. The dragon screeched happily, and wheeled and turned, somehow sensing that Jon was no longer in pain. Viserion took him to a set of caves which looked like they'd been frozen shut, and hovered, seemingly waiting, for what, Jon did not know. Then he remembered something Daenerys had mentioned, or was it a memory Viserion had shown him? No matter. He wanted to try it too. He cleared his throat and spoke, hoping he was saying it right.

 _"Dracarys."_ No sooner did the word leave his lips, than an enormous gust of dragonfire burst onto the cave mouth. The ice and snow melted, and the stones glowed red.

When they arrived back at the clearing where he'd left the others, Jon dismounted with some trepidation. As usual, Lady Mormont spoke her mind.

"I've already said this, but I'll repeat myself. You are a Stark to me, Jon Snow, no matter who your father was." Lyanna Mormont looked around at the others, a familiar fierce look on her small face. "And let no-one tell me that mothers are not important, my lords. That person should be prepared to face my sword."

Jon inclined his head, and looked at the others. They were getting ready to kneel, and Jon put his hands out.

"My Lords . . . I have treated with Queen Daenerys, that the North will belong to itself, that we will never kneel to dragons again. Do not make me a liar, my lords."

None of the Northern Lords seemed surprised, though Lord Royce still looked doubtful. That was a problem he'd be dealing with soon, Jon thought. But not today.

Lord Manderley spoke next. "You will have to marry, your Grace. Once this becomes known, you will need to marry a Northerner."

Jon raised an eyebrow, and looked at Lady Mormont, who blushed and shook her head. It was rare that she did anything to remind people how young she was.

Sansa took a step forward. "They mean me, Jon. We are cousins. With the history of our families, it would be ideal. A uniting of North and South, Stark and Targaryen."

She tossed her head, giving him a familiar, defiant look, just as Jon was wondering if he'd got knocked on the head while dismounting, and was now suffering a fever dream.

Sansa's eyes flashed, and she looked more beautiful than ever. "You must marry me."

.

* * *

.

Notes:

Sorry for the delay, but dentist. That is all.

Maybe it seems that the Northern lords are a bit fast to accept Jon, but they're looking at a dragon, after all. A big, scary, and intensely loyal dragon.

Yes, Jon's execution of the Vale Knight is more abbreviated in his list of titles, but Jon can't list them all right now.

Next chapter: Jon and Sansa. Heheheh.


	4. Chapter 4

Notes: Thank you so much for your reviews, faves and follows, and your patience!

 _In this chapter, Lyanna Mormont is having a hell of a day._

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 _Maege Mormont stood. "The King of Winter!" she declared, and laid her spiked mace beside the swords._

 _(A Game of Thrones, Chapter 71, Catelyn XI)_

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Chapter 4

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When the King vaulted up on the enormous white dragon and flew away, Lyanna had to pinch herself to make sure she wasn't dreaming. Though not even in her wildest dreams had she imagined seeing a dragon. Or that Jon Snow, who'd always struck her as being the most Northern man she'd ever met, was secretly the son of the last Dragon Prince.

She tried to hide her shock, though. She wasn't on Bear Island anymore. Every waking moment was spent making sure that she was never thought of as a silly little girl, rather than Lady Mormont.

Lyanna couldn't help but remember her last conversation with her mother, which had involved this very same thing.

"I'll have to take Dacey with me, you know that, girl." Maege had spoken roughly, as she'd always done, and Lyanna knew that whining or showing weakness would bring her nothing.

"Once you leave, I'll no longer be a girl." Lyanna's tone had matched her mother's, and she relished the admiring look in her mother's eyes, which she hadn't often seen. Part of her wailed in protest. Why couldn't she beg her mother to stay, not leave her alone? Still, she was certain none of it showed on her face.

"One last thing, Lyanna," her mother had said, beckoning her to sit on the bed by her side. "If the Ironborn come-"

Lyanna had interrupted, filled with a righteous fury. "We will kill them all!"

Maege's face had been wreathed in smiles, and had a tear glistened there? Lyanna wasn't sure.

"Yes. Of course." She then had sighed and had chosen her words carefully, something Lyanna had never seen her mother do. "But if they break through, if they capture you . . ." She trailed off, her hands clenching into fists. She suddenly glared at Lyanna, who had tensed, almost afraid of her. "If you cannot kill them, you must take your own life." She'd grabbed Lyanna's chin in a rough, calloused hand. Even now, Lyanna could still feel her mother's fingers digging into her chin, could still see the wild, almost feral look in her mother's eyes. "Do you understand?"

Lyanna had nodded, terrified of her mother more than her words, and Maege had turned away, satisfied. That morning, her mother, her sister, and so many of their men had ridden away to join King Robb's foolish war, and she had never seen them again.

She hadn't really known what her mother had been talking about, then. She'd had some childish notion of dishonour, of the family name, but that was in the past. She understood, now. Once a few years had passed, she'd asked the Maester about her mother's last words to her, and he had sat her down and told her frankly about the many more ways in which women's lives were made harsh by men. She knew she'd shown no emotion in her face, and managed to keep her gorge down until she reached her own chambers. Years after her mother's death, she finally understood her words, and thanked her for her good advice.

Except . . . had it really been that good? When she'd met Sansa Stark, she'd instantly despised her. Why had the Lady Sansa allowed herself to be married against her will, not once, but twice? If she'd been incapable of cutting her husband's throat, she should have cut her own!

Then, Lyanna had to change her mind once again, after her men had told her how the lady had repaid her second husband, who, whispers said, had used her most cruelly. Even her mother, she thought, would have been admiring of a woman who fed a man to his own dogs.

And now here she was, watching a Stark become a Targaryen, and she wondered what her fierce mother would have said to this. She found herself unable to suppress childish thoughts of resentment – her mother had backed the wrong Stark. _This_ was the man who would save them all, whoever he called father.

She realised that an expectant silence had fallen, and looked up to see the assembled company staring at her. They all looked like they were waiting for something from her, except for the wildling, who simply looked amused.

"My lady," Lord Manderly asked. "You will not speak to the marriage question?"

"Well, _I'm_ not marrying him," she blurted out, and noted that Lady Sansa immediately bit her lip, trying to suppress a smile. Lyanna pulled herself up to her full height, even though she know it wasn't much. "I am the Lady of Bear Island," she said, trying to sound more like Maege Mormont and less like a little girl. "Whoever I marry will perforce become lord there."

"It's as I said," Lady Sansa broke in, impatiently, "he must marry me. For the people to accept him as a Stark, he must become a Stark by marriage."

Lyanna opened her mouth to speak, ready to defend Jon Snow, when Lady Sansa caught her eye, and shook her head.

"Apologies, my lady. I misspoke. Jon will always be a Stark to me. But when the others hear about his parentage, might they not reject him, unless he is already married within the North?"

Lyanna nodded, slowly. It was a good idea. It would unite the North and the South by blood, in a way which had never been accomplished before. She looked steadily at Lord Manderly, Lord Cerwyn, Lord Glover. The Maid of Tarth seemed to be stunned, still, but was gazing, fascinated.

Was it really up to Lyanna to give her thoughts? What did she know of marriages and alliances? The wildling's smirk deepened, and she came to a decision. She would speak her mind. It was what she'd always done.

"My lords, the King must remain at Winterfell. There must always be a Stark, at Winterfell. There might be some who will reject him once they learn his parentage. And Lord Baelish is already planning his death, it seems, without this knowledge."

Lady Sansa gave her a sidelong glance, and bit her lower lip. "I am not too sure of that, my lords and lady," she said, not raising her voice. "Something Littlefinger said, once; called Jon a motherless bastard, born in the South."

Lord Manderly's face twisted in fury, and Lord Glover's fist clenched on his sword.

"What is he planning, do you think?" Lord Royce seemed to want to calm the atmosphere.

Lady Sansa shrugged. "He told me he plans to sit the Iron Throne."

Lyanna's eyebrows rose. "Does he know of Queen Daenerys and her dragons?"

"I don't think so," Lady Sansa answered, a lightness in her tone which Lyanna had never heard. "I hope we can witness it when he finds out."

The one they called Tormund gave a bark of laughter, and the others smiled too, until they seemed to realize that they were sharing a joke with a wildling, and stopped, confused. Lyanna herself was not sure what she thought of this man, who was more loyal to the king than all of them combined, and who he trusted above all others. It had not escaped her notice that Lord Tormund had known of the dragon before any of them. She caught herself calling him Lord Tormund in her head, and winced. No one called him that anymore, after one of the lesser lords had tried, and had been met by laughter. It was not a matter of scorn – the wildlings, or free folk, as they called themselves, did not kneel, whether in word or deed. Though once he'd called her Lady Bear, but had stopped, when the king gave him a sharp look. Lyanna didn't want to admit it to herself, but she quite liked it.

Any more discussion was cut short by the now familiar screech of a dragon. The men exchanged looks, and Lord Glover took it upon himself to speak.

"I think we are all agreed, my lords, and ladies. We chose Jon Snow as our king because of what he did, for the North. For us all. He is our King, the King in the North."

The huge white dragon landed before them with a thump, and Jon Snow slid off its back with an ease that suggested he'd done this many times before. Lyanna wondered what he was thinking, whether he'd expected them to reject him or not. There was a hint of apprehension on his face, which quickly melted away when she again took charge in pledging allegiance. She noted that the others were also relieved when the king said that they would not be beholden to the South, once more.

His reaction was quite different when he heard of the marriage that had been planned for him in his absence, though he must have guessed it was coming. Marriages made the best alliances, after all. Or so she'd been told.

Perhaps Lady Stark could have spoken more gently, though.

The king's reaction was equally abrupt. "Have you lost your mind?"

Lyanna realised she'd never seen the king in a rage, though when she snuck a look at the others, they didn't look surprised. Lyanna realised that this was the Jon Snow who'd won them over, not the boy playing at diplomacy.

His words were directed at Sansa, and Lyanna saw the colour rise in her cheeks. Not in embarrassment, or maidenly modesty. No, that was fury.

"You need to marry to secure the North, _your Grace_ , or have you forgotten that your father was no Stark?"

"Have _you_ forgotten that you're my half-sister, Lady Stark?" King Jon could be just as sarcastic as any court-trained lady, Lyanna thought.

"According to you, I am not your sister, half or otherwise," Sansa continued. "And it is perfectly respectable for cousins to marry – if my lord father had been permitted to reveal your true parentage, he would probably have arranged to marry you to one of us, anyway." Her eyes narrowed, and the king backed off, lightly. "Or is it that you'd prefer to marry Arya, in my stead?"

"Don't be ridiculous! Arya's a child!"

"It's been years since you saw her last – wherever she is, she's not a child anymore!" Then her eyes widened. "It's because I am no maiden, isn't it?" Sansa's words were a hiss of silent fury, and Lyanna saw the King's mouth drop open.

Immediately, Lyanna felt herself chivvied to the side, with the Maid of Tarth mumbling about giving them some privacy, and the other Lords nodding in fervent agreement. Did they really think she didn't know what they were talking about? Sometimes she wished she was a woman, so that they would no longer treat her like a child. Yes, she thought, and then they'd be talking of marrying her to some man she'd never met. At least Lady Sansa knew the King well, though that didn't seem to be making much of a difference.

Lyanna didn't realise her worries were visible on her face, until Lady Brienne put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"I am sure Lady Sansa and the King will come to an agreement," she said, and Lyanna wished she believed her.

She knew she was among friends here, else she'd never have spoken her thoughts out loud. "They seem to argue a great deal," she said, and wished her voice did not sound that wistful.

Brienne looked away, and Lord Glover would not meet her eyes, but Lord Manderly gave her a kind look and a half-smile.

"Ah, the fights, the quarrels, my lady wife and I used to have," he said, seemingly lost in happy remembrance. "And then, afterwards-" He was cut off by a strangled shout from the king.

"Yes, I bloody well know what a vassal kingdom is, and our agreement is nothing like that!"

"How would you know what it's like," Lady Sansa snapped, "you can't have spent more than a few hours with the Queen and her advisors! Agreements like that are hammered out over many days!" She folded her arms, glaring at the king, and Lyanna found a spark of unwilling respect growing in her for Lady Stark, who was still talking, enraged. "Or is it that you gave promise to marry your Aunt Daenerys, just like any other Targaryen. Perhaps you talked of me as Lady Lannister, Lady Bolton perchance!"

Lyanna never thought she'd regret her cold words to Lady Sansa on her first meeting, but regret them she did. She needn't have worried, though, as the King was ignoring them in favour of rummaging in his bag. He brought out a leather-wrapped scroll, and thrust it at Lady Sansa.

"This is from Lord Tyrion," he said, "who dissolves your marriage forthwith."

Lady Sansa was rendered speechless, as she turned the scroll over and over in her hands. "Tyrion is with the Queen?" she murmured, and the King nodded.

"He is her advisor," he said. "Along with Lord Varys."

He bit his lip, and brought something else out of his bag. "The Queen gave me these," he added. "I did not know why, at the time. But I think, now . . ."

They were two black cloaks, richly embroidered with three-headed dragons, of the kind she'd only ever seen in histories of the land, during her endless lessons with the Maester.

Lyanna could see how reverently Sansa passed her fingers over the cloth, and the fine silken thread of the device. She knew nothing of such things, but Sansa seemed impressed. Her lips twitched, as though she was trying to prevent a smile, and she looked at the king through her eyelashes.

"I will make you a cloak with the wolf and the dragon, combined," she said, quietly, and the King smiled. Lyanna felt warm all over. She'd never before noticed how handsome, how much younger he looked when he smiled.

King Jon reached for Lady Sansa's hand and squeezed it. "Can you make two?"

Lady Sansa nodded, seemingly shy, very different from the enraged woman of a few moments ago.

"My lords, it seems we have a wedding to arrange," the King said, turning to them, and Lyanna sensed rather than heard that they let out a sigh of relief.

"Not in the godswood," said Sansa, who'd regained her speech. There was a new edge to her voice. "It must be now, and it must be kept secret."

The wildling strode forward and spoke – Lyanna had almost forgotten he was there. He hadn't joined in the marriage debate – did they even marry, north of the wall?

"There is a wood, half an hour's ride away, in which I have seen a weirwood tree."

All eyes were fixed on him, and he shrugged. "My people follow the old gods too."

The King turned to Lady Stark, and gave her an inquiring look, and she nodded, accepting.

They got back on horseback, and, true to his word, soon they came upon a small copse, with a weirwood tree at its centre. They all dismounted, the men looking at each other aimlessly. Lady Brienne seemed hesitant to get too close, and she caught Lyanna's eye.

"You follow the Seven, Lady Brienne?" Lyanna hadn't spoken much with the Maid of Tarth, though she'd desired it greatly. The woman was the first warrior maid she'd seen since her mother and sister had ridden off towards their death.

Lady Brienne nodded. "My father and his father before him too. I have never seen a wedding before the old gods."

As they spoke, both the king and Lady Sansa seemed unsure of what to do next – it struck Lyanna that the king had spent the last few years thinking he would never marry. This must be exceeding strange for him.

"Lady Sansa, if it pleases you, I will act in your father's place," Lord Manderly said, smoothly. Lady Sansa just nodded. She looked colder than usual. Lyanna realised that she was terrified, but of what? Surely she was not afraid of the King?

They arranged themselves around the weirwood tree, its carved eyes and mouth looking solemn. Lyanna observed them, one by one. The wildling looked merely curious, and waited, with arms folded. Cerwyn looked sullen – perhaps he had thought that he'd get to wed Lady Sansa. Glover seemed lost in his memories, while Lord Manderly's expression was suffused with a fatherly pride.

Lyanna realised that the dragon and the wolf had followed them in silence. The enormous white wolf sat nearby, his attention caught by what they were about, while the dragon circled overhead, its only sound the flapping of its enormous wings. It came to her that neither of them had reacted when the King and Lady Stark were having their loud argument – perhaps they'd known this would be the result all along.

The King cleared his throat, and Lyanna was surprised once again by how young he really was. When he spoke, he sounded almost hoarse.

"Who comes?" His breath was white with cold, but his voice was firm. "Who comes before the god?"

Lord Manderly, Lady Sansa's arm tucked under his, answered.

"Sansa of House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?"

"I do," the King said, his voice stronger now. "Jon of House Targaryen, of House Stark, King in the North. I claim her. Who gives her?"

"Wyman of House Manderly, who was her father's vassal." Lord Manderly turned to Lady Sansa, lost in her thoughts. "Lady Sansa, do you take this man?"

Everyone seemed to be holding their breath, Lyanna thought, as the Lady Sansa stared into Lord Manderly's eyes. She looked lost, though this had been her plan. Lyanna wished she understood what troubled her.

Lady Sansa looked around her, almost as if she wanted to escape, then her eyes caught the king's. He gave her a small nod, and her face lost its pinched tightness.

"I take this man," she said, in a strong voice which rang around the clearing.

Lord Manderly put her hand into the King's, and they knelt in front of the weirwood tree for a few moments, then got up again. The King took off Lady Sansa's heavy cloak, and put the dragon cloak over her shoulders in its place, but only for a short while. The cloaks he'd brought from the Dragon Queen were too light for the North.

"Well," Lord Manderly said, "usually there would be some singing at a wedding. Perchance we will have that at a later date."

Lady Sansa – no, the Queen, as she now was – turned to him, and for the first time that day, smiled.

"Thank you, Lord Manderly." She turned to the rest. "I thank you, my lords. Once we can reveal ourselves, we will feast our wedding day. But for now, we must keep this a secret."

The dragon landed some distance away, and the King immediately approached, patting it on the nose, or where Lyanna thought its nose should be. It looked like he was whispering to the great creature, who butted its head into his chest. Then it launched itself into the sky, flying around in a circle, once, twice, sending bursts of flame into the air, and was gone.

As they rode back to Winterfell, the King drew level with her. He seemed to be hesitating, reluctant to speak his mind.

"Lady Mormont . . . I feel that the less people possible need to know what has passed here today. Your Maester will be told once everyone knows."

Lyanna nodded without hesitation, even though she was inclined to rebel, for the first time since they had chosen Jon Snow to be their king. She had known the Maester all her life, and he had been left to guide her when her mother and sister had left Bear Island. And yet . . . and yet her mother had told her to always keep her own counsel above all. Lyanna knew very well that Maege Mormont had trusted no man, not even the Maester.

Once their party approached the gate, they realised that a small contingent of people, including Maester Wolkan, was waiting for them.

"Your Grace!" the Maester said, almost tripping over his robe in his haste to speak to the King. "Ravens, your Grace! From the Wall, from the Citadel, from the Vale, and . . . I am not sure where _this_ one is from."

The Maester was brandishing an innocuous looking scroll. It looked like any of the others, except for the seal, which was of a large, rearing dragon, with three heads.

.

* * *

.

Notes:

So, the delay was caused by health issues, sorry about that.

I tried to build a little character for Lady Mormont in this one, hope it worked! I've gone by tv show story here, where Lyanna is the last Mormont left.

In the next one, we'll get to see what Jon is thinking, and maybe Sansa at a later date.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

* * *

It was a small chamber, out of the way, in a part of the keep that had not been affected by the Ironborn invasion or by the Boltons. According to Sansa, Lord Eddard had used it when he received correspondence that needed to be kept secret.

Jon sat at the desk, littered with scrolls, and felt like he'd been there before. Any minute, he thought, Sam would knock and enter, with new letters to sign. He tried not to think of the last time he'd been faced with a deskful of scrolls, all needing his attention. Jon could still see the look on Olly's face when he'd drawn him out, to his death.

The knock at the door shook him from his memories, and it was quickly followed by the door opening. Ser Davos peeped in, and Jon beckoned him inside. He was followed by Sansa, and for a moment, Jon wanted to cringe. Then he straightened in his seat. He knew he had to explain himself, before he lost their trust for good. He hoped it wasn't already too late.

"Please forgive me for keeping this from you both."

Ser Davos and Sansa exchanged a look, and Sansa raised an eyebrow. "It was rather strange when at first you were saying that we had to trust each other now, and then . . . this."

Ser Davos, on the other hand, wasn't meeting his eyes. "I understand, your Grace." Jon winced, shaking his head, and Davos responded with a small smile. "My loyalty had always been to Stannis Baratheon," he continued, stressing the last name, "and once you found out about your true father's family . . . well."

Sansa looked sideways, and then back at Jon. "I hope you didn't think I cared about a man who died before you were even born, Jon."

He leaned back, trying to suppress a small smile. He was continually surprised by this new, practical Sansa. But her next words hit him like a bolt.

"I actually expected you to apologise for making me practically beg for your hand in marriage." Sansa tossed her head, her eyes sparkling.

Jon was sure his eyes were bulging, in a way she'd always told him made him look like a startled frog. " _You_ told me that if I made you marry anyone, you'd cut my bollocks off! And his!"

Sansa blushed, lowering her eyes. "I said no such thing, Jon. Don't be disgusting."

Ser Davos was trying to look solemn, but his eyes were sparkling, and Jon gave him a warning look.

"You said you'd have me gelded," Jon continued, trying to avoid sounding plaintive. In truth, he'd been rather impressed at the time.

"Oh. Is that what it means?" Sansa mouth twitched with a suppressed smile. "It was just something I heard Tyrion say, once."

Jon realised his own eyebrows were gradually rising into his hairline. Sansa noticed.

"King Joffrey was trying to make us have a bedding – gods, he was such a monster." Sansa frowned, and Jon realised she was retreating into her memories of her time as a Lannister prisoner. No, that had to stop, he thought, right now.

"I actually wanted us all to have a look at the letters," Jon continued, gesturing to the scrolls that littered the small desk.

Sansa gave him a look. "Usually the Maester would be invited, not one advisor and your . . . new . . . wife." She stopped, seeming to hear the words for the first time, brows drawn.

Jon hurried to fill the silence. "Yes; Maester Luwin, he'd have been here. But this Wolkan . . . can we trust him?"

Ser Davos shrugged, while Sansa bit her lip.

"He came here with the Boltons, and was here through all the terrible things the Boltons did. I still don't know what happened to Lady Walda, and her baby. No one will tell me. And I often needed the Maester when I was here, but he was never summoned."

Gods, this was even worse than reminiscing about her time in King's Landing! Why could he not get this right?

Jon tried to feel guilty about keeping things from his wife, and failed. He knew what had become of Lady Walda and her newborn son. After he'd found out how Sansa had chosen to execute Ramsay Bolton, he'd ordered the dogs killed and the kennels cleaned out. Eventually, one of the men, face tinged with green, had told him of the other remains they'd found in the kennels – what was left of a rather large woman, and the cracked skull of a new-born baby. He'd managed to keep himself under control by gripping hard onto the armrests of his chair, until the man had left; then he'd emptied his stomach. Every day he'd thanked the old gods that Ramsay was dead, and that his line was ended.

It seemed to him that he'd missed something; he looked up at Sansa, startled.

"You say you needed the Maester, when you were here?"

Sansa winced. She looked like someone who was regretting having given away more than she intended. "I hardly think now is the time for this discussion, my lord."

Jon rolled his eyes, but acquiesced. Privately he thought that he would never understand women, not if he lived to be a hundred. He gestured to the scrolls littering the desk.

"Sam and Edd's letters are the clearest. I'm having trouble understanding the reason behind Littlefinger's words, and as for the letter from Daenerys . . . " He rubbed his eyes. He'd read that letter three times, and still wasn't sure what it meant.

Sansa picked up the scroll closest to her. Her eyebrows rose as she unfolded it, realising that the paper was much finer than usual, and Sam had managed to fit in a great deal on the flimsy sheet.

 _"Dear friend Jon, or should I say, your Grace? Yes, the news reached us here at the Citadel, where we are settling in nicely, I must say. I have succeeded in persuading the council of Maesters to let Gilly work in the Citadel kitchens, so we were all here when the Ironborn attacked. But don't worry! The Citadel is heavily fortified, you know! As for our icy little problem, I have been trying to find the solution, but it's rather difficult. All the old books say 'dragons', but the Maesters loathe dragons, and I suspect they have tried to purge all mention of the subject from the library. Still, I will keep searching! Your friend Sam."_

Ser Davos was shaking his head. "It's a good thing Queen Daenerys told you about the Ironborn invasion, and how it was pushed back, else you'd want to take Viserion there."

Sansa nodded. "The only useful thing we've learned is that Maesters hate dragons – not telling Maester Wolkan or Lady Lyanna's man about Viserion was a good decision."

"Sam does his best," Jon mumbled, wanting to defend his friend. But Sansa and Ser Davos were right. Sam's letter was a frustrating mix of sparse facts and unfinished stories, which tantalized, more than anything.

The letter from the Wall was both less frustrating and more so. Edd wrote of White Walkers and wights being seen beyond the Wall, and with no idea of how they got through it. There must be a breach, Jon thought, but where?

Ser Davos had picked up Littlefinger's letter, but after staring at the tiny writing, gave it to Sansa with a blush. She cleared her throat, and her eyes widened as she started to read. Jon realised that she hadn't expected it to be addressed to her.

 _"My dearest love, my lady Sansa, our plans are close to fruition. Your bastard half-brother will not survive his next foolhardy excursion. It is the oddest luck that he survived this one. But I vow to you, my love, that I will return to Winterfell at the earliest convenience and-"_

Sansa stopped reading, her eyes wide with anguish and horror. "Jon, you cannot believe that I am involved in any way with Petyr's plans!" She looked at Ser Davos, wildly, but he would not meet her eyes. She turned to Jon again. "Jon!"

Jon waved a hand, convinced. Either she was the best actress that had ever lived, and he was the greatest fool, or she was telling the truth. It wasn't as though he had a choice – he had to believe her. She was his wife, now.

"Stop, Sansa." She stared at him with tears in her eyes, unsure of him, even now. He cleared his throat, trying to choose his words with care. "Lord Baelish would never have written such an open letter if he didn't expect me to read it – this letter is meant for my eyes, not yours."

The paper crumpled in her fingers as the colour rose in her cheeks and her eyes narrowed. "He means to turn us against each other – to make you distrust me! Gods, I'm such a fool!"

Jon exchanged a puzzled look with Ser Davos, but the man shrugged. Sansa went on.

"I mean . . . I was there when he killed Aunt Lysa, after first making her believe that he loved her, that he would do anything for her."

"He killed Lady Arryn?" Ser Davos exclaimed. "But it was put about that the singer killed her, or that she took her own life . . . "

Sansa shook her head, and shuddered. Jon could hardly believe all that she'd been through, and that was before Ramsay had done to her . . . what he had done.

"My lady aunt was half mad, talking strangely, accusing me of trying to seduce Lord Baelish." Sansa's face twisted in disgust. "She tried to push me out of that damned Moon Door in the Eyrie." She paused, lost in remembrance. "Sometimes I still have nightmares of the rushing wind, the ground so far below." Sansa chewed on her lip, then caught Jon's eye. "I thought Lord Baelish had come to save me. He pushed her out, and then, when I lied to the Lords Declarant for him, I thought it gave _me_ power over him!" She laughed, and the bitter sound of it was more than Jon could take.

"Don't you see," he added hurriedly, "that's why he urged you to marry into the Boltons – to make sure you never spoke the truth, or if you did, you wouldn't be believed."

She gave him a sideways look, but nodded. "Perhaps. But I was stupid to think I could ever deal with Littlefinger on my own."

"But you're not on your own now, your Grace," Ser Davos interjected, and she turned to him; in surprise, Jon thought. It was clear that she'd forgotten he was even in the room.

Jon gave him a thankful look – both for his words, and his expression, which was the most father-like he'd ever seen on the man. Ser Davos had obviously decided that Sansa was to be trusted, and Jon felt a huge weight fall from his shoulders. He rummaged hurriedly on the desk for the last scroll, the letter from Daenerys, and thrust it blindly in Sansa's direction. She took it, puzzled.

"This one is as foggy as Littlefinger's was clear," he added, and she raised her eyebrows. "Perhaps she was afraid it would be intercepted."

Sansa nodded, and cleared her throat.

 _"To Jon Snow, of the House Stark, King in the North, from Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, greetings! Now that the traitor House of the Stag is no more, the Dragon and the Wolf must unite for the good of the land, because Winter is Coming. The Dragon marches South bringing Fire and Blood, to beard the Lioness in her den. Yet the young Lion slinks to the Trident, as the gods have pronounced judgement on the breakers of guest-right, the traitors Frey. The Dragon Queen will, as a gesture of goodwill, bestow great bounty on the White Wolf and all who stand at his side._

 _Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen."_

Ser Davos raised an eyebrow. "Half of that letter was the Queen's titles."

Sansa was back to gnawing at her lower lip. "I'm sure she left a few out, too . . . when she said that the Dragon and the Wolf must unite, she meant you and me . . . I hope."

"Of course," Jon said hastily. He hadn't been so sure when he first read it, but now he understood. It was strange how quickly Daenerys had gotten used to thinking of him as a fellow Targaryen. "Even when I was there, it was clear that the Queen and her advisors thought I should marry you – why else would Lord Tyrion release you from the bonds of marriage?"

Sansa nodded, still frowning. Jon tried to change the subject.

"What did she mean, the lioness in her den? Surely Tommen is king now."

"Then he must be dead," Sansa answered darkly. "Because there's only one lioness left, and that's Cersei Lannister." She looked at the letter again. "So Jaime Lannister is headed towards the Twins, again." She looked up, and caught them staring at her. She smiled, and Jon's breath caught in his throat. Gods, she was beautiful.

"It's quite obvious," she said, stressing the last word with a little smirk. "The young lion can only be Jaime Lannister – Cersei must have sent him right back to the Riverlands when, as it says here, the gods punished the Freys."

Jon nodded. Now that she explained it, it did seem obvious. "I wonder what this punishment was," he mumbled, almost under his breath, but Sansa must have heard him.

"I hope it was painful," she said, and he nodded.

"And slow," Jon added.

Ser Davos cleared his throat. "Will you be – ahem - _flying_ to the Twins, your Grace? One glimpse of Viserion and both the young Lannister and whoever's still in the castle will bend the knee."

Was that how he wanted to convince people to follow him? Fire and Blood, as Daenerys had said? "I thought, perhaps, there might be a way to convince Jaime Lannister without the use of force."

Sansa's eyebrows shot up. "You mean to send Brienne? Again?"

Jon nodded. "This time she just needs to play for time – perhaps he'll be persuaded by seeing an actual dragon, perhaps not. But if she's there, he won't shoot us out of the sky on sight."

Sansa still looked doubtful.

"Let's just ask her," he added hastily. "If she refuses, I'll find another way."

Sansa's smile was sardonic. "She's not going to refuse, Jon. She'll go to the ends of the earth for that man."

Ser Davos cleared his throat again, and when Jon looked at him, the colour was high in his cheeks. "I'll go and fetch her, your Grace."

When they were alone, Sansa found it hard to meet his eyes, he realised. She was blushing, and when she spoke he understood.

"Jon, our marriage must be." She broke off, as though she couldn't bear to complete the thought. "You know that some lords will say it isn't valid until-"

Gods, why was she doing this to herself? He had to stop her. "Sansa, listen to me." Jon grabbed her hand and squeezed it, staring at her, willing her to look at him. After a few moments, she did. "We will do nothing that you do not want. Do you understand me?" She looked to the side, unwilling to accept his words. He touched her chin, gently and she turned her face to his again. "I don't care about the lords, I don't care about any of that. Nothing will happen, Sansa, _nothing_. Not until you're ready."

Her eyes filled with tears. Of gratitude? He wasn't sure. "What if I'm never ready, Jon? What then?"

Once again, Jon wished Ramsay Bolton to life so that _he_ could kill that monster, slower this time. Never is a long time, he wanted to tell her. But she wasn't ready for that, he could tell. They were both young. He could wait.

"Then we live as brother and sister, my lady." He looked her deep in the eyes as he spoke, and he saw the moment when something sparked in hers.

"Thank you," she whispered, and pressed a hard kiss to his lips, catching him by surprise. Her lips were trembling, but they soon stilled. As she pulled back he caught a look of mild puzzlement in her eyes. He too was surprised – he hadn't expected the sudden longing for her that washed over him once her mouth was pressed to his, the scent of her filling his nostrils, surrounding him, a cloud of red hair obscuring his vision.

Jon cleared his throat, trying desperately to think of something innocuous to say, and was glad of the knock at the door.

Brienne of Tarth was flushed and sweaty, and immediately apologised for her state. "Your Grace, please forgive me, I was sparring with some of the Northern lords."

Jon's eyebrows rose. " _Some_ of the Northern lords?"

Ser Davos followed behind the lady. "Some lads think that they'll impress their fathers by bringing down the famed Maid of Tarth."

Brienne flushed and lowered her eyes modestly.

Sansa looked annoyed. "Really, Jon, can't you control them? Now is not the time for fighting amongst ourselves."

But Lady Brienne shook her head. "Please don't, your Grace. I have been through this kind of rite of passage before. They will tire of the sport before long, I assure you."

Jon was about to point out that he hadn't said anything yet, but decided to take Brienne's words as an end to the dispute. Truly, Brienne was right – saying something to the Northern lords would only make things worse; for _Brienne._

"Lady Brienne, you may have heard that we received a letter from Queen Daenerys – I would like you to read it, too."

Brienne took the letter hesitantly, but her expression changed once she read it. She looked at the others in the room, and Jon regretted having given her the letter at all, once he saw the mingled pain and longing in her face. Why was he doing this to her? She was hopelessly in love with that Lannister bastard, who would never love her back.

"You want me to go and try to parley with Jaime Lannister." Brienne's voice was quiet, almost a whisper.

"Brienne . . . " Sansa also seemed to regret her earlier urging, and looked at Jon, helplessly.

"We need someone who will speak for us with Lord Jaime – someone who will explain Viserion, so that I won't be struck down by his lancers." In truth, Jon wanted the Lannister to have warning, so that he and Viserion wouldn't be forced to torch half the man's army before he listened to reason. The Freys at the castle would not be extended the same courtesy.

Brienne looked at each of them in turn. "You know he told me he could not turn on his family. Especially with his _nephew_ on the throne."

"That is why we are giving you the option to refuse, my Lady," Jon said, suddenly wishing he could take back the last few moments. This was insane – he was proposing to send a woman into enemy territory, to negotiate with a hostile force. Yes, Jaime Lannister had saved Brienne's life, and her virtue, on their travels, but he did not travel alone. He knew what they called her – the Kingslayer's Whore – and he also know what men did to women of easy virtue – all women, really, who they deemed vulnerable.

Brienne must have been reading his thoughts. "Well, they'll be calling me worse than the Kingslayer's Wh- _Woman_ this time."

She'd corrected herself on catching Sansa's shocked look. "Apologies, my Lady. I've spent too much time in the company of rough men." She gave Jon a blinding smile, and he was surprised into smiling back. "I will prepare for the journey and leave in the morning, your Grace."

"With Podrick, of course," Jon added, "and some other men, I think-"

But Brienne was shaking her head. "I will accept Podrick's company – he is my squire, after all. But I cannot guarantee anyone else's safety, your Grace."

Jon found himself chewing on his lower lip with the insane thought of bundling Brienne and Podrick onto Viserion. But that was madness. He had no way of knowing whether the dragon would accept any other rider. Instead he nodded.

"Ser Davos will provide the horses and provisions," he added, thinking privately that he would have his own discussion with Ser Davos as soon as Brienne left. She agreed, pausing only to bid a perfunctory farewell to Sansa, before she took her leave.

Sansa gave him a questioning look. "You're not going to let her go and face Jaime Lannister with just Podrick at her side?"

"Of course not." Jon gave her a glance. Did she think so poorly of him? "I'll send some men in secret . . . someone I can trust."

Sansa nodded. "And someone who will trust her; someone who will accept a female warrior."

Jon rubbed his eyebrow. The scar there tended to itch, especially when he was tired. "You know that you're describing the free folk, there?"

A brilliant smile was his answer. "You do know that there are quite a few spearwives, I think they're called, who survived the battle?" She took his blank look for assent, though he hadn't in fact known any such thing. Jon was starting to realise that in the weeks since his return he'd been too caught up in his own problems. Sansa ploughed on, regardless. "Well, I've been thinking. They need some sort of occupation, besides fending off the men, and free folk would certainly know how to keep themselves hidden while following Lady Brienne."

Jon agreed, and decided to speak to Tormund about it. He had one last question for Sansa. "You don't think there should be a mixed group – free folk and northerners?"

"No, Jon. Besides the fact that we'd risk a fight breaking out and them killing each other and never reaching the Twins, I think the women really need some time to themselves." She blushed at his raised eyebrow.

Brienne and Podrick rode out the next morning, with spare horses and provisions. A small force rode out at the same time from the Hunter's Gate, in secret. Jon, Tormund and Ser Davos had seen them off, Jon being careful to hide his smile when he saw the women's disgust at having been furnished with leather armour, surcoats, breeches and cloaks from Winterfell. Their furs were rolled up in their packs, but they'd understood that they would be less likely to be attacked if they were seen as young men of the North riding south, rather than a group of wildlings, 'invading'. Sansa and Lady Mormont had been on the battlements, watching. He was quite sure he saw a wistful look on the latter's face.

Jon and Ser Davos had calculated how long it should reach Lady Brienne to reach the Twins, so he knew he had around three weeks. He decided he would use the time for practice flights on Viserion, until he had an idea of how long it would take on dragonback. There were no further letters, so he still spent some sleepless nights wondering exactly what kind of 'gift' the Queen had sent him.

He also occupied himself with sending out various expeditions – something which Tormund liked to call 'keeping the kneeler cunts busy' – to the Dreadfort, to the Last Hearth, to the Karhold. Of course, the lords of those Houses were dead, but the castles had not been left completely undefended. Loyal men would be guarding each keep, waiting for their lord's return.

Also, each castle would be needed in the wars to come. Though he'd have loved to take the Dreadfort apart, stone by stone, he knew he could not. What with the dead rising, on both sides of the Wall, no fortress could be wasted, no matter what his and Sansa's feelings were about the matter. It was quite a clever technique he'd developed, he thought, and then flushed when he imagined Sansa's raised eyebrow at his immodesty.

Each time, he'd taken a lesser lord and his best men, who only really needed to keep their mouths shut until they left the keep. After that, they would not be able to tell anyone that their king rode an enormous white dragon, and any communication would depend on their access to paper, ink, and ravens. And people who could read and write.

The plan, every time, was simple. They waited for nightfall, and then Jon and Viserion would fly around the castle, checking for particularly alert guards. None of them ever looked up, and Viserion, who was treating this as a game, was very quiet on those flights. Jon would land, creep down to the courtyard, and open the front gate. His men would steal inside, incapacitate the guards who were still awake, and tell the Castellan that the castle had been taken. Jon always left strict instructions – no bloodshed, no reprisals, nothing was to be done to the women or children. He hadn't needed Sansa's impassioned speeches to think of that himself. He'd only needed memories of Craster's Keep, and the horrors therein.

He'd promised to be back to check on matters, and he'd promised some reprisals of his own if his orders weren't followed to the letter.

It was only in the Dreadfort that there was any fighting – how he wished he could destroy that place of ill-omen. But of course, while sneaking down from the battlements, he'd caught the eye of one drunken guardsman looking for a place to piss. Before he knew it, he'd been fighting half a dozen, and he had to order Viserion to torch the main gate so that his men could enter. The next morning, as he supervised the last loyal Bolton men being flung on a heap to be burned, he found himself not regretting what had occurred. Throwing the banners of the flayed man on top of the heap, he felt that the last of the Bolton poison was being purged from the North.

There were no Boltons left in the Dreadfort, not even minor ones. The castellan had died in the short battle, and only very young soldiers and servants remained. Jon had them led outside the battlements, and they watched as the Bolton banners and men were set aflame by the first dragon they'd ever seen.

When Jon turned to them, they knelt. The hill-lord he'd taken with him was to be their new lord. Jon had only demanded that the dungeons and torture chambers would be cleared out, never to be used again – otherwise, the newly elevated lord was free to rule as he saw fit, but fairly.

At the end of the second week after Brienne's departure, Jon felt himself becoming restless and irritable. He felt like there was something he was missing, like he was already too late. After a few days of this, he came to a conclusion: he would leave now for the Twins. Sansa, Ser Davos and Tormund were left holding the reins of the castle, and he promised he'd return as soon as he could.

It took him two days, almost, to reach the Green Fork of the Trident. He was not interested in tiring the dragon out, so he made sure Viserion had enough to drink, and had eaten before they set out. But soon, too soon almost, the two castles which made up the Twins came into sight, and he bid the dragon fly lower.

The situation was worse than he had imagined. The Lannister army was encamped in front of the castles, and at first he could not see Brienne and Podrick. When he finally spotted them, he was filled with fury. They were on horseback, together with Jaime Lannister, but Brienne and Podrick were shackled. Jon should have listened to Tormund, who'd called Jaime the worst of the kneeler cunts – not only did he kill his king, Tormund had ranted, he'd fucked his sister!

Well, it ended now, Jon thought, and told the dragon to be as loud as he liked, as he wheeled around the encampment. As Viserion's screeches filled the air, Jon almost wanted one of the soldiers to nock an arrow, or aim a spear in his direction. Let them try him, he thought. Many shocked faces were upturned towards him, while Brienne just looked knowing. Podrick was awestruck, having been told of the dragon, but never having seen him.

On one of his last wheeling circles over the camp, Jon spotted a group of what looked like Northerners, hidden in a nearby copse. One stood up, and waved her bow in the prearranged signal – he nodded, and signed for her to wait.

As Jon urged Viserion towards the larger of the two castles, he spotted a group of men leaning over the battlements. Those must be the lesser Freys, he thought. Where was Walder? Where were his sons? Viserion hovered over the castle, flapping his great wings, and Jon decided that it was time to end this.

"I am Jon Snow! I am the King in the North! I am the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, and I demand you surrender the castle! I demand you surrender Lord Tully!" If he'd expected the Freys to be impressed by his words, he'd have been disappointed.

"You bloody Northern bastard – you're no king of mine!" The man who spoke must have been one of Walder's many grandchildren, all called Walder, to honour him, or to curry favour. He spat to the side. "Edmure Tully, the greatest fool in the Riverlands, will stay in our cells, and hang for the murder of Walder Frey, the best lord who ever lived." The Frey gave him a toothless grin. "We know who you are, Stark bastard! We killed your kin, bastard, and we'll kill you too!"

At that, the other Frey nodded at one of the soldiers, who loosed a wobbly arrow in Jon's direction. Viserion easily batted it aside with one great claw, and Jon could feel the anger rising in the dragon's chest, because it was growing in his own. Very well. If that was the way, then that was the way. He stared at the men on the wall, making sure he only fixed his gaze on the Freys and the men defending them.

Jon did not shout, or raise his voice unduly when he spoke. He said it, quietly, loud enough for the men on the wall to hear, but not anyone else. _"Dracarys."_

 _._

* * *

 _._

 **Notes** :

Thanks so much for faves and follows - I treasure every one of them!

I decided to put in some spearwives, even though they haven't really been featured on the show. They haven't really said anything yet, but I think one of them is going to be called Karsi, in homage to my favourite character in the episode "Hardhome".

Next chapter: Brienne's thoughts - she's got a few!


	6. Chapter 6

Note: This chapter just keeps growing, so I split it in half - part 2 is coming soon, I promise.

Thanks to everyone who's still reading, I really appreciate everyone!

* * *

 _"Swear it by the Seven," urged Ser Illifer the Penniless._

 _"By the Seven, then. I did no harm to King Renly. I swear it by the Mother. May I never know her mercy if I lie. I swear it by the Father, and ask that he might judge me justly. I swear it by the Maiden and Crone, by the Smith and the Warrior. And I swear it by the Stranger, may he take me now if I am false."_

 _"She swears well, for a maid," Ser Creighton allowed._

 _(A Feast for Crows, Brienne I)_

* * *

Chapter 6

* * *

The shackles were cold on Brienne's wrists, and she suppressed a shiver with an effort. Still, the horse she was sitting on must have felt it, as it moved restlessly. She sensed that she'd caught Jaime's attention, and swore silently, but didn't move her head, determined to keep ignoring him.

Brienne couldn't remember what she'd expected when Jon Snow (King Jon, now) and Lady Sansa had asked her to ride to meet with Jaime Lannister. You thought he could be made to forget his damned sister, didn't you, a harsh voice asked her. Thank the Seven, this voice was only in her head. No-one would ever find out how foolish she'd been.

The ride back to the Riverlands had been uneventful, if colder than Brienne remembered from her previous journey. Podrick had pointed it out, too, and if he noticed something, it must be obvious. He hadn't noticed the group of riders following them south, though. So the king had sent someone after them, had he? She'd hoped they would keep their distance, else the Lannister forces would see her arrival as an attack, rather than the peaceful parley she wished for.

It had all turned to naught in the end, though. Once she'd arrived on the outskirts of the camp, in front of one of the Twins, she'd been brought before Jaime, who looked older and more beaten down than she remembered. But it's only been a month, her inner voice wailed in despair, as her heart clenched in her chest for him. The way he raised his head, as he sat at a desk in his tent, and stared at her for a few seconds, reminded her of his father.

"I thought they must be mistaken, my lady. The scouts, I mean. When they saw two riders, and described Brienne of Tarth as one of them, I thought they must be _mad._ I almost had them flogged, for drinking on duty." As he talked, Brienne's heart sank. This was the old Jaime, the arrogant Kingslayer, not the man who'd given her a sword and a mission.

There were other men in the tent, too. Perhaps that was why he was so different with her. Bronn she recognized from previous meetings. But he too was changed, and did not even attempt to talk to Podrick. She supposed the last man, besides the guards, to be a distant Lannister cousin, from the various lions decorating his clothing and armour. The sneer on his face seemed permanently etched.

"My lady?" he asked, contempt dripping from his words. "Have I not heard that this," he paused, looking her up and down, " _woman_ , travels all over the land, dressed as a man, affecting to fight? No lady here, surely."

Brienne sensed Podrick reaching for his sword, and immediately grabbed his arm, keeping her eyes straight ahead. Meanwhile, Jaime shot his cousin a look of fury.

"You'll keep a civil tongue in your mouth, Ser. I'll not have the lady disparaged."

The man flushed, but showed no inclination to stop speaking. "The Queen will not approve of your giving shelter to the protector of the murderess, Sansa Stark!"

Brienne was conscious of having changed expression – Jaime winced, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. She ignored his description of Lady Sansa, and hesitated before speaking.

"King Tommen . . . " She trailed off, not knowing how to continue.

Jaime sighed and leaned back in his chair. "There was an . . . eruption of wildfire under the Sept of Baelor. My nephew, the king, his wife, Lord Tyrell, Ser Kevan . . . most of the court." He held her eyes long enough for her to see the pain in them. "All gone. My sister was crowned queen soon after." His expression hardened. "Long may she reign!" he suddenly barked, and everyone in the tent chorused after him.

Even Podrick mumbled the words, taken by surprise, Brienne thought. But she did not. Jaime's eyes widened while his cousin spluttered at his side.

"My lady, you would be wise to-" Jaime started, but she wasn't interested in what he had to say.

This farce would end now. It was clear to her that Cersei had massacred the entire court and installed herself as queen, but that was not anything to do with her. She'd never been happier to know that Daenerys was headed towards King's Landing – let _her_ deal with that poisonous power-mad bitch.

"She is no Queen of mine," Brienne interrupted, "nor of Podrick's", she added, aiming a quelling look at her side. "Nor of the North. There are no more Wardens, now. The Boltons are gone. Their line is extinguished. Jon Snow is the King in the North. Son of Rhaegar Targaryen, King of the Andals and the First Men, lord of the North from the Neck to the Wall."

"Jon Snow? King in the North? The Stark bastard who joined the Night's Watch?" The Lannister cousin scoffed, face almost purple with rage. "Have you lost your wits?"

Jamie interjected. "Son of Rhaegar Targaryen, you said. That's madness. What proof do you have?"

"He has a dragon. He _rides_ a dragon. I saw it with my own eyes." Brienne noted how each man reacted to her words.

The Lannister cousin simply laughed, and not kindly. Jaime shook his head and Bronn narrowed his eyes. But when she gave a quick glance to the men standing guard, she noticed hands tightening on lances. So, the common soldier was not inclined to dismiss talk of dragons out of hand.

"C'mon, boy," Bronn said, glaring at Podrick. "You're not going to tell me you saw a dragon."

"I wasn't there," Podrick said, a note of apology in his voice. "But I trust and believe my lady."

Jaime hadn't said a word, but now he raised a hand, and everyone fell silent. "Why are you _here,_ Lady Brienne?"

Brienne swallowed. She'd hoped to have been able to speak to him in private, but that was not to be.

"My king sent me as an emissary, Lord Lannister," she started, thinking that two could play the game of icy court manners, if he so wished.

She got no satisfaction on seeing a twitch when he heard the title he usually associated with his father. She also needed time to consider her words. If she even hinted that a Targaryen Queen with two dragons and a horde of soldiers was headed towards King's Landing, no god in existence would stop him from taking his armies there, except maybe the Stranger.

"The king will join us soon enough, and you will see the truth of my words," she continued. "It is not for me to say what he intends, simply that he wishes an alliance between North and South, to face . . . to face a growing peril."

Brienne chewed on her lip, conscious that she'd not ended on her strongest point. But what could she say? If they wouldn't believe the dragon which she'd seen with her own eyes, they would never believe talk of White Walkers and wights, monsters from childhood tales. She was half unsure if she believed it herself.

"If that bastard dares show his face here, a dozen arrows will deal with him," the Lannister cousin spat. Unseen, to his side, Bronn rolled his eyes.

"Your wench has lost her wits," the Lannister added, and Bronn winced this time, though Brienne didn't know why. It wasn't as though Jaime had shown her any special regard since she'd come.

Jaime leaned back and studied her, then shook his head. "Guard! Bring two sets of shackles."

Brienne just nodded, but the gasp from her side showed that Podrick hadn't been expecting this.

"My lord!" he protested, while Bronn seemed to be trying to signal the boy to keep quiet.

"Thus end all traitors," the Lannister cousin said piously, while Jaime rolled his eyes.

"I'm not going to execute them," Jaime said, in the bored tone Brienne knew all too well. "But we can't have enemies of the Queen loose in our camp. Bronn can keep an eye on young Podrick here. Lady Brienne will be my guest tonight."

Brienne didn't need to see the guards' expressions to see that they were smirking; a glare from Jaime aimed over her shoulder confirmed that quite well. Oh Jaime, she thought. My reputation was almost recovered from the Riverlands.

The guard returned with two sets of shackles. Jaime took one of them and carefully chained her wrists, all the while avoiding her eyes. Bronn saw to Podrick.

"Ser Jaime," the Lannister cousin started angrily, though a sharp look from Jaime caused him to slow down. "My lord, I mean. Surely it is not wise to seem to show favour to such as these? The men, I believe, may not-"

Bronn interrupted, having had enough, it seemed. "The only one inciting the men to grumbling every time my Lord Lannister gives an order is yourself, Ser Damion. Come on Podrick, we've got drinking to do. If you need to take a piss, don't worry. I'll give you a hand."

They left the tent without a by your leave, but Jaime didn't seem angry. Ser Damion was spluttering something about insolence, and jumped up gutter-rats who affected to be knights, when Jaime pointed out, in a mild tone, that Ser Bronn had been anointed after the Battle of the Blackwater. Ser Damion, evidently not a veteran of that battle, left in a huff.

Presently they were alone, except for the guards, who Jaime also ordered to leave them, though not without a few protests.

"Are you saying I can't defeat a woman who's shackled? I can see how much respect I command here!"

Brienne rolled her eyes as the guards trooped out, nudging each other. Doubtless many tales would be told about their lord's prowess in bedding the ugliest maid in the land, Brienne thought bitterly. Some of that must have shown in her face.

"Brienne, I had to chain you. I'm sorry."

Why must he be so obtuse? What did it matter if she were shackled or not? She was once again the Kingslayer's Whore.

"What do you intend to do with us, Kingslayer?"

Jaime's face fell, but to his credit, he didn't attempt to win her over with sweet words. "At first light we march on the Twins. Apparently someone's killed Walder Frey." He sighed, and poured a cup of wine, offering it to her. When she shook her head, he shrugged, and went on. "The remaining Freys are blaming Edmure Tully, and have locked him in their dungeon, breaking the agreement we made the last time I was here."

"The agreement," she sneered, wanting to say more but suddenly feeling sorry for Jaime. He looked so tired, so worn. Tommen was dead, she remembered. His last child, gone. She tried to harden her heart against him, but could not. Fool, she raged. Lackwit. He feels nothing for you. Then why did he ensure that I wouldn't be raped by his soldiers, she thought, perversely arguing with herself.

Jaime cocked his head to one side, a tiny smile on his lips. "Have you come to a decision?"

She brought her brows together. What was he talking about?

"Whether you hate me or not."

Something clenched in her chest. "I could never hate you," she burst out, then bit her lip, not wanting to say more.

Jaime looked away, his eyes glistening. He cleared his throat, seemingly fighting for control. "There's a cot," he said, with a lazy gesture of his golden hand. "Get some sleep. After this Frey mess is dealt with, I'm sending you to your father."

Back to Tarth, she thought with anger. Back home, a failure, like a beaten dog. But then she shrugged, because it didn't matter. It would never happen. No mere mortal could defeat King Jon, now. Not with Viserion at his side. When she looked up, Jaime was looking back at her, puzzled.

"No protests?" he asked, and she shrugged again. He didn't believe her about the dragon, so why should she rail against him? Then a horrible thought struck her.

"Jaime, you must not try to fight the dragon. Promise me that you will not."

Jaime looked bemused. "Brienne, I don't know what you saw, or think you saw, but-"

Brienne felt as though the rage would make her erupt in flames. Why was a woman's word never enough? Would they have believed everything if Podrick had seen the dragon? Well, they'd all find out soon enough.

She only managed to sleep for an hour or two, conscious of Jaime sitting at the makeshift table that had been set up for him. He'd seemed to be looking at a map of the Riverlands, though she could have told him that it was pointless – there was no way to get into any of the two castles except by trickery, and his ruse wouldn't work twice. King Jon had other methods.

The next morning, the air was cold and crisp as they rode the short distance to the Twins. Jaime had told her of his plan to try and talk to the remaining Freys again, before starting a siege. Brienne wasn't going to repeat herself, so she'd just nodded, ignoring the sidelong glances of the soldiers who'd come to wake Jaime, who was already awake, of course.

She'd exchanged nods with Podrick and Bronn, hushing the former as he hissed an urgent whisper at her.

"My lady, he didn't-"

"No, of course not." Was it her imagination, or did Bronn look almost disappointed as he caught her whisper? Podrick blushed.

"Ser Bronn seems to think that you would do well to . . . uhh . . . " She was quite sure she knew what Bronn was advising, and cursed her fair skin for the colour that she was sure was rising in her cheeks like a flag.

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, including Bronn in her words. "You know we have other matters to worry about."

Brienne couldn't help worry, because while she'd tried her best to warn Jaime about the dragon, she hadn't said a word about what the King incessantly called the _real war_ to be fought in the North. Not that she could blame him. He'd seen true horrors, among them, his own men rising from the dead to attack him. Once again she asked herself: did she really believe him? Well, how could she do otherwise, with whole villages emptied, with only one or two survivors left to seek refuge at Winterfell?

As she mused, they rode. She was fully lost in thought, so the first screech did not rouse her. But Bronn's words did.

"By the hairy arse of the lord of hell, that's a fucking dragon!"

She looked at him and he was staring up into the sky, along with Podrick, Jaime, and the other men on horseback. The dragon passed over them, and as she looked up, she caught a glimpse of the King looking down at them. Brienne felt her heart hammering in her chest, and knew she had to act fast.

"Jaime, send out your sergeants! Calm the men! You must do it quickly!" Jaime, to his credit did not hesitate. The others looked at her, puzzled. Only Bronn was nodding.

"Didn't you see that bugger's face? Not the dragon, I mean, his rider. He was spittin' mad, probably that you've chained up his sworn men, begging your pardon, m'lady."

She could hear the sergeants going through the ranks, yelling at the men. She was about to argue that it wasn't really what she'd meant, when Bronn put a hand on her arm, snatching it away quickly when Podrick looked daggers at him.

"Sorry, m'lady. But they're simple soldiers, and shouting is the best way."

As they talked, King Jon and Viserion wheeled over the soldiers, once, twice, almost daring them to loose arrows at him. Then he turned and flew towards the nearest of the Twins. They weren't close enough to hear what he said, but everyone, even the men on the ground, saw what happened next.

Torrents of fire shot out of the dragon's mouth and enveloped the men standing on the battlements. Their shrieks tapered off almost immediately, but Brienne still cringed at the thought of being burnt alive. She didn't look away, though. She was conscious of men's eyes on her, and if she'd learned anything from being a warrior, was that respect was earned by being able to gaze upon such horrors, and not look away.

The sound of a horse's tack distracted her from her thoughts, and she realised that Jaime was once again by her side. He was staring at the scene which had her fascinated, and as she looked back, she saw the King draw his sword Longclaw with a flourish, and jump lightly onto the battlements of the castle. Viserion then flew around and seemed to be attacking the drawbridge, until it fell with a loud crash – the dragon had melted the chains. As if at a signal, a group of Northern warriors burst out of the woods nearby, and rode hard for the castle entrance.

"Where is Ser Damion?" Jaime's abrupt question stirred her from her reverie. It was true, she hadn't seen the man since the dragon flew over them.

Bronn gave them a sidelong look. "Off to tend to his ravens, I'd expect."

Jaime's lips thinned. "Take some men and . . . deal with him."

Bronn opened his mouth and closed it again, though he wasn't really abashed by the look on Jaime's face. He nodded, dismounted, and vanished with a couple of men in tow. Brienne was conscious that she was staring at Jaime, mouth open.

"He's Cersei's spy, Brienne. Or rather, Qyburn's spy. Or both. No matter, he needs to disappear in the Riverlands," Jaime continued, his voice having returned to its usual lazy drawl.

"But he's your cousin," she said, and I thought your family was so important to you, she wanted to yell, that you could never work against them.

He shrugged. "Distant cousin." He noticed that she was still glaring at him. "If it helps, he suggested that I should give you to the men, for their sport."

Brienne felt her bile rise and controlled it with difficulty. She ended up shaking her head. "I don't think I'll ever understand you, Jaime," she mumbled, and then could have kicked herself as she saw the pleased look on his face. He produced a key for her chains, and just like that, she was free, and so was Podrick.

A shout from the men drew their attention to the castle, from which the group of Northern warriors had emerged.

As they drew closer, Brienne recognised them – they were the spearwives who'd come to Winterfell with Tormund. Only some of them had fought in the battle against Ramsay Bolton, because Tormund had said he was tired of watching Free Folk be massacred for the kneelers. This was said to her round a fire after some sparring, where she'd been lucky to hold her own against those fierce fighters.

The two outriders had pennants fixed to their lances – on the one, a white wolf against a grey background, and on the other, the increasingly familiar three-headed red dragon, against a black background. Brienne tried to ignore the muttered conversation the soldiers were having behind her.

 _"Wasn't the Stark banner a grey wolf on a white field?"_

 _"That Jon Snow's a bastard, I hear."_

 _"Aye? So am I. How's he king, then?"_

 _"He's got a dragon."_

As the warriors drew closer, the muttering changed.

 _"More bloody women with swords."_

"Do you know these women?" Jaime murmured out of the corner of his mouth.

Brienne managed to answer just as discreetly. "They are Free Folk. Their leader is called Karsi." She privately wondered how the King had managed to persuade them to wear Northern clothes and armour, though she was sure their furs were rolled up and tied to their saddles.

The women stopped when they were close enough to be heard.

"Jon Snow demands the release of Brienne of Tarth and Podrick Payne, who are to join him in the castle." Brienne was sure that was not all they had to say, and she was right when she heard Karsi's next words. "Jaime Lannister will also join the . . . _king_."

Jaime raised his eyebrows at her tone, even as Bronn spluttered in rage. "You can't be thinking of going there! That's a death trap!"

Jaime ignored him, turning to Brienne instead. "Doesn't she like your king in the North?"

"They're wildlings, Jaime. They have no kings. Though they do call him King Crow, sometimes – 'crows' is their name for the Night's Watch."

"One day you will explain to me how he got out of that one. Very well." Jaime turned to the warrior women and raised his voice. "I accept King Jon's invitation, with thanks."

Bronn's face had turned purple with frustration and anger. "Jaime!"

Jaime sighed and put a hand on his shoulder. "If Jon Snow had wanted to kill me, I'd be a pile of charcoal right now. But if I try and run, he'll hunt me down on that bloody flying lizard. I have to believe that he needs me for something, if it's only for the Lannister armies and our gold."

He quirked an eyebrow at Brienne, but she refused to meet his eyes. She knew why King Jon needed an army, and she wasn't sure Jaime was going to like it.

"Bronn, I need you to take charge of the men. I'll send for you as soon as I can."

Jaime turned to Brienne, and his devil-may-care smile almost broke her heart. Was she leading him to his death? No, Lady Sansa would have never allowed that. But Lady Sansa was a queen now, with a queen's responsibilities.

"Well, my lady?" Jaime raised an eyebrow, and she flushed, muttering an apology for her distraction.

Brienne forced her trembling hands around the reins of her horse and spurred the animal to follow the free folk to the castle. She knew that Jaime and Podrick followed behind.

When they entered the great hall of the Freys, she was expecting King Jon, and wasn't surprised by his casual attitude. He was stoking the fire and swearing, and Jaime stopped in his tracks, a look of bemusement on his face.

Podrick immediately ran to the fireplace and wrenched the poker out of the King's hand. "Your Grace!" His consternation was obvious, and the king shrugged.

"None of the bloody Frey servants are coming out of hiding – they think Viserion's going to eat them. I had to free _him_ myself."

Brienne had a moment to register that the King's Northern burr was stronger than ever, when she realised who the king was talking about. Edmure Tully stalked towards them, his eyes full of hatred, fixed on Jaime. She immediately put herself between them.

"My lord Tully," she started, unsure of how she should go on. Luckily by then the king had reached them, and put himself in front of the man.

"Get out of my way!"

"We talked about this!" King Jon sounded as exasperated as he did when dealing with the Northern lords and their incessant squabbles with the wildlings.

"I agreed to nothing," Tully spat. "This murdering bastard is going to die, today!"

"I'll have you know my parents were wed before the Seven," Jaime added mildly, and Brienne rolled her eyes.

"Do you know what Roose Bolton said to your brother, right before he stabbed him to death, in this very hall? 'The Lannisters send their regards!'" Edmure would not be pacified.

But now Jaime was angry, too. "I was miles away, having my hand cut off at the time! You can hardly hold me responsible for my father's actions!"

"Oh, and what about _your_ actions, my lord Lannister? You threatened to put my son in a trebuchet and throw him over the battlements!"

At this even Podrick looked up from the fireplace in shock. Brienne could hardly believe her ears, and the King was rubbing a scar on his forehead.

"It was just a threat, to get you to give us the castle! I never would have done it."

"Enough!" The roar silenced them all, and even if she hadn't known that the King had led men into battle, she would have recognized that tone.

Outside the hall, she could hear a dragon screeching, and she didn't need to see it to know that Viserion was flying around the castle, agitated by the King's sudden outburst. There really is a link between them, she thought.

The door to the great hall opened a crack, and a terrified face looked in. "Um, begging your pardon, uh, lord, we, that is, the servants, we was wonderin'-"

Brienne didn't often thank the gods for Podrick, but she did now. He instantly took charge of the man, directing him to get food and wine for all, and clothes for Lord Tully. Soon they were all sitting as close to the fire as they could get. Once the servants had finished bringing food and wine, deposited in front of them with shaking hands and averted glances, the King turned to Podrick.

"Did any of the servants tell you what really happened here? All I got out of the lesser Freys were threats and insults."

Before Podrick could answer, Jaime's languid tones interrupted, and Brienne could have kicked him. "Was that in the few moments before you set fire to them? I can't imagine why they didn't tell you the whole story."

But the King didn't seem angry at Jaime – at least, not very angry. "It seems that every time we meet you insult me, my lord. In fact, they did say something about Lord Edmure here killing Walder Frey, which I don't know how he did-"

Lord Edmure interrupted him. "From a dungeon! Where I was chained up since you left here, _my lord_."

Jaime had the grace to look embarrassed and pained. "I offer my deepest apologies for that. Walder Frey . . . I should never have trusted him to keep to the agreement."

Lord Edmure seemed slightly mollified and nodded at Podrick to speak.

"One of the kitchen maids tried to tell me about a strange serving girl who disappeared around that time. They found Walder Frey in this very room, with his throat cut – to the bone, she said."

Podrick waited for a reaction, and, when none was forthcoming, continued. "His sons were dead too. But no-one wanted to talk about _them_."

The king nodded, and rubbed his chin. "It is no matter." He turned to Edmure Tully. "Your wife and son are being held in the other castle. There's only a castellan there, and a few Frey men. With the help of the Tully troops who I'm sure are roaming the woods in the Riverlands, it should be no issue for you to take the castle. Might be some one here knows a hidden way in."

"Probably through the river," Brienne blurted out, then flushed, as all eyes were on her. "At least, that was how Ser Brynden helped us escape from the Riverrun . . . after it was surrendered."

She realised that she'd said the wrong thing when Lord Edmure bristled at her words.

"Yes, my uncle Brynden – what happened to him, I wonder? Butchered by Lannister soldiers!"

"He could have surrendered without dishonour, and he knew that," Jaime answered mildly. "He chose to die fighting."

"To keep your whore safe, no doubt!" Edmure shouted, and Brienne felt her skin heat up and tighten with embarrassment.

Podrick and Jaime shot to their feet, their hands on their swords. Brienne tried to pacify them and looked to the king, but he was no help, the expression of fury on his face one she'd rarely seen. Then he held a hand up, and glared at Lord Edmure.

"Lady Brienne of Tarth is my sworn emissary and protector of my wife, Queen Sansa. You will curb your tongue, Lord Edmure."

Tully seemed more embarrassed at himself for his outburst. "I must apologise, Lady Brienne. I have not been . . . myself, of late."

She tried to accept the apology gracefully, but it was hard. Jaime sat down, but Podrick stalked off, and pretended to stoke the fire.

It was then that Edmure seemed to hear what the King had said. "Your _wife_ , Sansa? She's your half-sister, by the gods!"

The king sighed, no doubt tired of having to repeat what he'd said more than once. "I am not Ned Stark's son, Lord Edmure. I have told you this."

"A dragon? A dragon being your pet is the proof we're supposed to take for you not being Ned's bastard but some kind of Targaryen by-blow?"

Jaime sniggered. "Have a care, Lord Edmure. There's a few piles of ash on the battlements who spoke to _King_ Jon the way you are doing now."

The king ignored Jaime's words and addressed Lord Edmure. "You are not being asked to accept anything. The Riverlands are not part of the North. I freed you so that the Twins will be an open passage to any of the North who need to travel South. And, of course, the other way. Particularly, my . . . aunt, Queen Daenerys Targaryen."

The sneer fell off Jaime's face and he leaned forward. "Queen _who?_ Where is her kingdom? Which throne does she sit?"

Now it was Edmure's turn to smirk, and Brienne's heart fell. This was not turning out the way she'd expected. She suspected the king felt the same way. She met his eyes, and there seemed to be a question in them. She nodded. This bickering had to end. Perhaps it was what Jaime was used to, coming from King's Landing, but that was in the past, during a Summer which had seemed endless.

"Neither concerns you, Lord Jaime." King Jon's voice turned as cold as he'd been when he'd executed the Master-at-arms in the courtyard at Winterfell, as cold as she was sure he'd been when he'd ordered Viserion to blow fire at the Freys. "You will never return to King's Landing."

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 **Notes** :

I hope I got Brienne right!

In the second part of this chapter, we'll stay with Brienne for now - the Jon and Sansa part is coming, I promise, but the Riverlands are taking longer than expected.


	7. Chapter 7

_Thanks so much for your favourites and follows, and your reviews - I really appreciate it._

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 _The hooded man lifted his pale moon face, and Jon slashed at it without hesitation. The sword laid the intruder open to the bone, taking off half his nose and opening a gash cheek to cheek under those eyes, eyes, eyes like blue stars burning. Jon knew that face._ Othor, _he thought, reeling back._ Gods, he's dead, he's dead, I saw him dead.

 _(A Game of Thrones, Chapter 52, Jon VII)_

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Chapter 7

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Brienne hardly dared look at Jaime, so sure was she that he must loathe her for her betrayal. But when she raised her eyes, there was no anger in his. In fact, his expression was rueful, more than anything. He sighed, looking down at his golden hand.

"I am a prisoner, then?" Jaime's tone was light, though his other hand was clenched at his side.

"You have two options, my lord – stay here in a cell, or come North. With us."

"I know which one I'd prefer," Edmure muttered, and Brienne was sure she saw the king roll his eyes.

"Why can I not return to King's Landing?" Jaime pleaded, and Brienne felt her heart sink. "My sister needs-"

"No." King Jon remained implacable, and even though her heart ached for Jaime, she knew that it was the only way to keep him alive.

If he was in King's Landing once Queen Daenerys arrived – Brienne shivered. What death would she reserve for the man who'd murdered her father? She thought involuntarily of Rhaenyra Targaryen, fed to a dragon while she lived, and had to control her stomach with force of will.

"I need your army, Lord Lannister. If you will not agree, I must come to some arrangement with Ser Bronn." The king's expression indicated that this was not his preferred option.

"Bronn? Just offer him a castle, that's what's worked in the past." Jaime had regained his usual light tone. "Why do you need an army, anyway? I thought you were acclaimed by the Lords of the North, and you seem to be on friendly terms with this Queen Daenerys. Who on earth could you be fighting now?"

King Jon shot Brienne a querying look, and she shook her head. They hadn't even believed her about the dragon, she thought in despair. If she'd come with stories about the Night's King and his White Walkers they'd have done worse than put her in shackles.

The king leaned back in his seat and scratched his eyebrow – the scar there pained him, she could tell. He looked at Jaime, considering, and glanced at Lord Edmure, who'd fallen silent, no doubt also wondering why the king needed the Lannister army.

"What do you know about the Wall, Lord Jaime?" King Jon started, and both men gaped at him like he'd lost his wits.

"It was built . . . many years ago. To keep the wildlings out of the seven kingdoms." Jaime spoke hesitantly, and his brow was furrowed. "What, _wildlings?_ You need to fight them? But no, that can't be right – I'm told you let the wildlings through the Wall, thousands of them. Even their women fight for you, now."

"You let _wildlings_ through the Wall?" Edmure spluttered. "Are you insane?"

King Jon continued, as if Tully hadn't spoken. "Truly, Lord Jaime? A wall seven hundred foot high, three hundred miles long, to keep out a bunch of what you call savages?"

Brienne had wondered at it herself, once she rode through the gates of Castle Black. No-one who saw the Wall with their own eyes could truly believe it had been built to hold in a few ragged tribes, clad in furs. Perhaps growing up in the Stormlands had prevented her from being blinded by the hatred of the Free Folk – blinded enough to believe in such a ludicrous thing.

"Up until some years ago, they were all scattered tribes. Even when Mance Rayder joined them together, they didn't manage to come over the Wall. As my wildling friend Tormund put it, King Stannis and his horses cut through them like piss through snow. No." King Jon shook his head. "The Wall was not built for that."

Lord Edmure was still staring ahead like a dullard, Brienne thought, but Jaime . . . Oh, Jaime's mind was like quicksilver, making connections as fast as lightning, even though he didn't truly believe it yet, she could tell.

"I hesitate to speak frankly, your Grace, lest your pet dragon turn me into roast pork, but I can't believe that . . . It's just stories, isn't it? Tales one's nurse tells one, of the Night's King and his servants, of Azor Ahai and his flaming sword . . ." Jaime trailed off, his eyes staring at nothing, and the king snorted.

"You will not persuade me, Ser, that your father, Lord Tywin, would ever have allowed any nurse to tell you such stories."

"No, of course not. And I hated reading. No, my younger brother used to devour books, and then he'd tell me all these tales. But even for him, they were just _tales."_ Jaime smiled, seeming to remember those far-off days of childhood. "And I never believed _any_ of them were true."

"Jaime, you never believed dragons were real, either!" Brienne knew she was being too passionate, too urgent, but she couldn't help it. He could not go back to King's Landing, he just couldn't.

"Are you going to tell me you have seen such things, my lady?" Jaime asked, his voice light once more.

"No," she answered, reluctantly. "And neither has Podrick, before you ask." His eyes mixed merriment with apology. "But the king has, and most of the Free Folk have too. They are coming, Jaime. Winter is coming. Will you join us in fighting it?" Will you be the true hero I know you to be, Jaime?

"Or will I forever be known as a curse on men's lips," he answered, as if he'd heard her unspoken plea. "Sisterfucker. Kingslayer."

"You can't honestly trust this man," Edmure blustered, and Brienne thought the king was almost ready to break his jaw. "Not after all his family has done to ours, to yours . . . "

He trailed off when he caught a glimpse of the king's face. Lady Sansa had told her that the king had a temper. That Tormund fellow had laughed when he told all who would listen how obdurate Jon Snow was, but it was the first time Brienne was witnessing it for herself.

King Jon stood up, and started pacing in front of the fire. "Families! Our families." He almost spat out the word. "Let me tell you about families, my lords. And lady." He rubbed his forehead. "All my life I have heard how mad King Aerys massacred my uncle and grandfather – now it turns out that he was _my_ grandfather, too! And a Lannister killed him, while another Lannister had my uncle, who I thought was my lord father, butchered in front of a baying crowd."

King Jon somehow sensed that Jaime was going to protest and whirled around to face him. "Do not deny that King Joffrey was your son, my lord. No one believes otherwise anymore."

Jaime raised his hands in surrender, the golden one catching the light from the fireplace.

"I won't even go into the part your father played in the Red Wedding, and the fact that my parents . . . " King Jon's voice hitched, and he had to clear his throat. "My parents caused a war which tore the land apart, ripping wounds which are still open today."

He stalked to the table, where he'd left his sword, and drew it with a flourish. The Valyrian steel blade shimmered in the firelight, changing colour, drawing everyone's eye.

"The fact is, none of that matters." If he'd been almost shouting before, now he was quiet. "None of it. Not the wars, the secret murders, the plotting . . . Baelish is behind so many of those plots, and yet, he matters less than the filthiest street-rat in Flea Bottom."

She noticed Jaime start at hearing Littlefinger's name, but he said nothing.

"None of it matters, because he is coming." The King continued, not having noticed Jaime's reaction. "Winter is coming. We never asked ourselves, did we, why our House has no mention of wolves in our words. Oh yes, my fa- my _uncle_ used to talk about the importance of the pack, but still. _Winter is coming_. Yes, he is. I have seen the White Walkers. I have seen the Night's King. I have seen the dead come back to life."

"Do you think the Lannister armies can stop him?" Jaime's voice sounded strange, Brienne thought, until she realised that the sarcasm had been stripped from it.

King Jon, still staring at his sword, sighed. "I don't know. I told the wildlings at Hardhome that at least we'd give the fuckers a fight, but now I'm not so sure we can even do that. All that kills the White Walkers is Valyrian steel, and to be sure there are still many of those swords left, but where are they? Dragonglass hurts them too, but where are we going to get enough of that? Perhaps dragonfire will hurt them, but Viserion is only one dragon."

"If they reach the Riverlands," Edmure started, only half convinced of what he was saying, and seeming glad to be interrupted by the king.

"If they reach the Riverlands, all will be lost, Lord Edmure." The king's voice was tired and hoarse. "Your best chance at survival will be to take your people and go South, as far South as you can. Put some water between you and them."

Edmure looked at all of them in turn, his expression suggesting that he thought they'd all gone mad. Before he opened his mouth to speak, the king put a hand on his arm.

"Lord Edmure, come with me to see what kind of forces this castle can muster. Your first task will be to secure your wife and son." He looked over Lord Edmure's shoulder and winked at Brienne, raising an eyebrow and glancing at Jaime.

Brienne blushed, and waited for Jaime to speak, which she was sure he would as soon as the two men left the room, dragging an unwilling Podrick with them.

"Did your great king just suggest you try to seduce me, Lady Brienne?" Jaime asked, his eyes merry.

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Brienne answered, primly.

Jaime leaned back in his chair, and she fidgeted slightly under his keen observation. "How much of all of this do you believe, Brienne?"

She bit back her instant reply, and considered his words. Did she believe all the talk of White Walkers and wights? She looked at Jaime more closely, and noticed once again the new lines around his eyes, the general air of fatigue about him. Returning to King's Landing would mean his death – of that, she was sure. Could she let him take that road? Perhaps he wanted to die.

"I believe that something, or someone, is attacking us from the North. Are you so lacking in imagination, Jaime, that you must see something with your own eyes to believe it exists?"

Jaime looked away, abashed, she thought.

"Besides, the point is moot. You will not be allowed to go South."

"Why, because otherwise I will interfere with his aunt's plans for King's Landing?" Jaime answered, his words laden with bile.

"Perhaps. But besides your sister, there is nothing calling you there. And even _she_ does not-" She bit back her words, worried that she'd gone too far.

But Jaime did not look angry. "No, you are right. She sends me away, can hardly bear to look on me, after . . . " He looked at his golden hand, turning it this way and that in the firelight. "It seems that I have but one choice," Jaime continued, giving her a tired half-smile.

Brienne nodded, and got up. She did not know where she was going, only that she could not stay there – not with Jaime the way he was now, broken. Would he eventually blame her for being kept from the only woman he'd ever loved? Time would tell, she thought, and left him there, staring into the fire.

It took some days for the great Lannister army to ready itself to move into the North. Brienne and Podrick rode in the vanguard, with Jaime and one of his most trusted sergeants. Bronn had his own group of men-at-arms, on horseback so that they could quickly ride to the rear to make sure that no stragglers were drifting away, or being attacked behind them. The group of spearwives also stayed with them, though not as part of the main force. They rode ahead, reluctantly keeping their Northern clothing and the pennants of the King's Houses, though as they rode further into the North, various fur items seemed to appear out of nowhere.

The army's progress North was painfully slow, compared to the speed at which she and Podrick had ridden there. At this rate, Winter would be over before they even sighted the battlements of Winterfell, she mused, only half joking. The King and his dragon flew in ever widening circles around the army, at times flying ahead to various castles in their way, at times disappearing for a day of two and returning with news from Winterfell.

They took the Kingsroad through the Neck, having been told by the King that Lord Howland Reed had given assurances of safe passage past Greywater Watch, though Brienne noticed that none of them were invited to rest in the seat itself. She also noticed that King Jon seemed shaken after his meeting with the crannogman. She put it down to the reputed strangeness of the bog-dwellers, and thought no more of it.

In truth, there were other events which troubled her on their journey North. She hadn't been sure that she really trusted Jaime to keep his word and come North with them. The further North they rode, the more restless and tense he became. Still, he led his army into the swamps at the Neck, and thanks to King Jon's intervention, no soldiers were lost to the lizard-lions that lurked just beneath the surface of the water in some areas. She could not help watching him, certain that at any moment he would turn tail and run off to King's Landing, leaving them all behind.

"My lady Brienne, do you trust me so little?"

Jaime's voice startled her. She thought that he had not noticed her surreptitious glances in his direction. Once again, her skin betrayed her true thoughts with a deep red blush.

Brienne looked around her, hoping vainly that the light was still too dim for her bright red face to be easily noticeable.

It was early in the morning yet, and the whole army was preparing to set out once more, packing up the camp after a night's rest. They had, at last, traversed the treacherous swamps, and now were only a few days' march away from Winterfell. She hoped.

"Forgive me, Jaime. I-"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. I'd be more surprised if anyone trusted me." Jaime sounded rueful, as though he wished he could go back and change his past. He lifted his head and smiled at her. "It just pleases me to watch you blush."

Brienne narrowed her eyes. "Perhaps we should spar some more, my lord," she said meaningfully, and was gratified with a wince.

"Let my bruises heal, my lady. And my hurt pride," Jaime said, and, with an easy grin, walked off to direct the dismantling of his tent.

Once they had left the Twins Brienne had soon realised that Jaime needed to practice fighting with his left hand if he wanted to become any sort of swordsman again.

So, she set up sparring sessions for him. Not with his own men – Jaime had refused that, not wishing to show weakness. So Brienne had to fight him, and the spearwives helped too. One of them had even confided that she enjoyed dumping the tall kneeler on his arse. Jaime never got offended though, or showed any hurt pride. He'd get up, with a twinkle in his eye and a compliment on his lips, and returned to the task at hand. So, when she saw Karsi approaching, Brienne assumed that the woman wanted to ask whether Jaime wanted to spar that morning. She hadn't expected to hear that some of the spearwives were interested in bedding Jaime. Brienne was struck dumb with shock, and the spearwife, raising an eyebrow, offered her apologies, saying that she hadn't known that Jaime was Brienne's man.

"What? No, of course not! I don't have a- They call me the Maid of Tarth: don't you know why?"

Karsi looked at her quizzically. "You kneelers. I'll never understand you lot, not if I live to be a hundred."

She walked off to where the other women were saddling their horses, and shook her head in response to questioning looks from her fellow spearwives. There were some disappointed looks and phlegmatic shrugs, but that was all.

Jaime must have known they were interested in him, Brienne thought. Yet he pretended not to notice. Why, though? Some of the women were comely enough, though none as beautiful as Cersei Lannister.

"Well, Brienne?"

She started. She hadn't heard Jaime come up behind her, and he snickered. It wasn't often that her caught her by surprise like that. She looked at him, raising an eyebrow, and he grinned.

"What did Karsi want?"

Should she tell him? Perhaps he'd want to . . . have some companionship, though she'd never noticed him frequenting the camp followers. Her Septa had always told her that men had needs, and a dutiful wife would always suffer them gladly. That was when everyone in her father's household still thought Brienne would have a husband one day. She realised that Jaime was still waiting for an answer, and blushed, once again cursing her fair skin.

"Some of the women are interested in your company," she answered, conscious that her tone of voice sounded surly.

Jaime's grin widened further. She really shouldn't have worried, earlier. Even though at first he'd seemed restless, the further North they rode, the more his easy smiles had returned. The pinched and tired look on his face had started to fade away and become less frequent, too, something Brienne was glad of.

"Good to see not all women are disgusted by my deformity," he said, lifting his golden hand.

Brienne rolled her eyes. "They've never seen anyone with such an injury who didn't die of it," she said. "They think it's lucky. Besides," she went on, as she tightened the straps on her saddle, "I was never disgusted by your . . ."

Her voice trailed off as she considered what she was saying. Gods, she was pathetic. As though Ser Jaime ever considered her to be a woman – to him, she was nothing more than a fellow warrior, albeit an exceptionally ugly one. She tightened the strap with unnecessary vigour and the horse snorted in protest. When Jaime's voice came, it sounded deeper and much closer than before.

"I know that, Brienne." She was as tall as Jaime, and when she turned her head, his face was close to hers. The look in his eyes was stormy. She felt like she'd been running a race – it was an effort to catch her breath. "You have never treated me like a cripple, like something lesser."

No, she wanted to answer, but the words wouldn't leave her mouth. He was looking at her lips, gods, he was close enough to kiss. The tension between them stretched almost to breaking point, she did not know whether to scream or laugh to break it, or even kiss him herself.

The high, yipping bark of one of the camp dogs made them both start, and Brienne looked towards the camp, feeling almost guilty. What had she been thinking, here, where anyone could see? And what was wrong with that dog? Before she could ask anyone, the dog was joined by others, until all of them were howling, the sound eerie, even though it was morning.

The spearwives who had also been saddling their horses exchanged looks. Brienne opened her mouth to reassure them, when the first snowflakes began to fall. And Brienne remembered.

She remembered the lords and free folk gathered inside the great hall at Winterfell, after they'd all eaten, listening to Tormund Giantsbane tell of the fall of Hardhome. His words had cast a spell on them, and they listened entranced as he told his tale. She would never forget it, she knew; particularly how it began, with the camp dogs howling, and the snow falling.

Brienne looked around her – Karsi caught her eye, and nodded. No-one was taking notice among the foot-soldiers, who had been busy dismantling the tents, and preparing for the march. Podrick was approaching her, a look of puzzlement on his face, but it would take too long to explain to him. She had to be sure, how could she be sure? She looked at Jaime wildly. He'd noticed her exchange of glances with the spearwives, and he raised his eyebrows.

"Brienne-"

She interrupted him before she lost her nerve. "Jaime – something's wrong; something's coming."

Grey-white clouds were gathering in the distance, gathering fast. The wind was rising, and the snow was drifting ever faster. Soon it would be hard to see, but last night's red sky had promised a beautiful clear day. She was of the Stormlands, and she knew weather patterns. This was not natural.

Gods, if she was wrong this would be the end of her, she thought. But if she was right . . . She drew her sword, and Jaime drew his.

Podrick's eyes widened as he saw them, and he drew his sword too, and then Jaime's voice rang out.

"Sound the alarm!"

It seemed to echo as various sergeants took up the call, and a horn sounded.

"Torches! Men at arms, light torches!" Her voice was as loud as it had ever been, but it seemed weak and shrill against the wind, which was starting to howl.

Brienne had a few moments to wonder if she hadn't made a horrible mistake. And then . . . a shriek in the distance, joined by another, and yet another, ever closer with the clouds, and the snow, and the wind. They were trapped, with the Neck at their backs, and in front of them . . . an army of the dead.

Brienne lunged and slashed, but every time she cut screaming wights down, more appeared in their place. She started to realise why Jaime had seemed worried during their sparring – she'd never been in a real battle before, and it showed.

Somehow, she was separated from Jaime and was standing back to back with Karsi, fighting for their lives. The other spearwives were around her and fought – faster than her. Godsdammit, she was too slow! She'd always been too slow, she berated herself, even as her sword took apart a wight that was more bone than man.

She allowed herself a fierce grin, and turned to Karsi – but the woman was looking past her, face frozen in horror. Brienne turned, and felt the air knocked out of her. A tall figure, with long white hair and blue-white skin was striding effortlessly through the crowd. Its eyes were fixed on only one man – Jaime Lannister. Even as she took a first step through the air, which seemed to have turned into syrup, she saw a running figure in the corner of her eye, running towards Jaime.

"Podrick, no!" Brienne shrieked the words, but the boy clearly couldn't hear her.

Podrick ran so that he was between Jaime and the White Walker, but as he raised his sword, the creature shattered it with one downward slash of its ice blade. Brienne ran, desperately trying to reach them, but in vain. The White Walker drew its sword back, and, without a moment's pause, ran Podrick through.

Afterwards, Brienne never could remember if she screamed Podrick's name, or just a wordless yell. She ran as she'd never run in her life, and the creature turned to face her with a joyless grin on its frozen face. Her first wild strikes were deflected by its ice blade, and the creature looked mildly surprised that her sword did not shatter at its touch.

She spat in its face, and scarcely knew what she did in a red mist of horror and fury. Still, she was already tired and had been cut a few times by the crazed wights. What saved her was the unearthly screech of a dragon above her head, and a heartbeat's distraction was all it took. She swung Oathkeeper in an arc to cut through the creature's neck, but as soon as her sword touched the White Walker, the thing turned into ice and fell apart.

All around her, men were fighting wights, but Brienne only saw Podrick, on his back, his brown eyes open, staring unseeing at the sky. She staggered towards him, sobbing, only to find herself held back, an arm around her waist.

"Brienne, stop!" Jaime's face was turned to hers, eyes wild. "He's dead! There's nothing we can do for him!"

All around them, shrieking wights were bursting into flame as Viserion flew overhead, and Brienne realised what was going to happen.

"No! Let me go, we must help him!"

She pushed Jaime away, only to find more hands holding her back – Bronn was there, and a sergeant, and Jaime again. She fought them as she'd never fought before, catching Bronn in the face with a mailed fist, but they would not let her go to the boy. Still she fought. She didn't know what she had in mind, just that he could not be dead, he could still be saved, they had maesters with the army, something must be done for him! And in fact, he wasn't dead, she saw – his fingers were moving.

"Look!" she said, "he's alive! We must get a maester!"

The men holding her back all turned towards the boy, so they all saw what happened next.

Podrick sat up, his eyes blue as a frozen glacier, yet burning with a ghastly white light. He grinned as he rose to his feet, a look on his face which she'd never seen before, and she moaned in horror.

"Brienne, Podrick is no more!" Jaime was yelling in her ear now. "You must let the dragon deal with him!"

"No!" Brienne shook her head, and blinked away the burning tears which threatened to blind her. "He was my squire. I must send him to his rest."

They let her go, and she walked towards what once had been Podrick. She prayed as she walked, begging the Father to take the boy to his golden hall, pleading with the Stranger to lead him there.

It took one strike of her sword to cut him down. Jaime, who'd come up behind her, handed her a lit torch, and fire did the rest. Then she knew no more.

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 **Notes**

Sorry, guys. _Valar Morghulis,_ y'all.

ETA - to answer a question about this chapter. It was asked in a guest review, and I'll probably repeat the answer in the next chapter.

 _Why is Jon using the reverse direwolf banners though? He's acknowledged that he's the son of Rhaegar and Sansa already said she was making cloaks etc with a dragon and direwolf. Or is he still unable to accept that Rhaegar married Lyanna because of what that would mean, that he's actually the true king of the Seven Kingdoms?_

The problem is one of timing. The fact that the fandom is a pre-industrial society plays merry hell with things like this.

Here's the thing - the Spearwives, who are carrying the banners, leave with Brienne, on the exact same day that Sansa and co. find out about Jon's Targaryen heritage. So there is no time to make the combined Direwolf and Dragon banners that Sansa promised.

But Jon was named King weeks (months?) before the story starts, so there was plenty of time to make reverse direwolf banners, because at that point, all everyone knew was that Jon was a Stark bastard and also a king, so he'd need some banners.

Also, when Brienne mentions seeing a Targaryen banner, she'd seeing the cloaks/cloak Daenerys gave Jon hastily refashioned into a banner. In fact, those aren't colour-reversed, because there wasn't time to make them. Also, I'm not sure I want to get into the whole Blackfyre business, so I'm thinking Sansa might not want those colours - if the wolf is white, why not the dragon, too? But I haven't even got there yet.


	8. Chapter 8

Notes: Sorry about the long delay, and thank you to the people who keep following and favoriting my story - you have no idea how much it means to me.

Now that Season 7 has started, I want to point out that my story is now completely AU - there will be no spoilers for Season 7 here, as I'm attempting to go in a completely different direction.

In this chapter, we see what's happening at Winterfell in Jon's absence - Sansa finally shares her thoughts.

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* * *

 _". . . After my name day feast, I'm going to raise a host and kill your brother myself. That's what I'll give you, Lady Sansa. Your brother's head."_  
 _A kind of madness took over her then, and she heard herself say, "Maybe my brother will give me_ your _head."_

 _A Game of Thrones (Chapter 67, Sansa VI)_

* * *

 **Chapter 8**

* * *

 _. . . I regret the sad news I have given you in this letter, sister. I wish it could have been otherwise._

 _All the consolation I can offer is that our new ally's army is still strong, and our losses were few. I have a mind to take the army to Torrhen's Square, and liberate it from the Ironborn._

 _Any members of House Tallhart still alive will be restored to power – if none are found, our new ally will settle his men there for the time being. The lord will of course be coming to Winterfell, once this is done._

 _Dearest sister, please reply to this letter – it would be a balm to my heart to hear some good tidings of Winterfell . . ._

Sansa put the scroll down with a heavy sigh. She'd have liked to run her fingers through her hair, and regretted the impulse to have it braided back that morning.

She could barely believe that Podrick Payne was no more. How could it be? How could the affable young man, who'd helped save her from Ramsay, and who'd helped her stumbling recitation of vows to Brienne, be gone?

Oh, gods . . . Brienne. Sansa wondered that Jon hadn't said anything about her. Though surely he would have said if Brienne had died too, she thought, fighting down the panic. She'd lost so many – how could she bear to lose any more? She blinked back the tears and forced away the memories of her parents, of Robb, of Rickon.

Reading the words again, she wondered who had helped Jon write in such a guarded manner. She'd had to read between the lines to understand what had happened – the many references to unseasonal ice and snow, so close to the Neck, had confirmed that they had indeed been attacked by – she could barely even think it – White Walkers.

She put the letter down again, only half-conscious that she was doing it. When Jon had first told her about his experiences beyond the Wall, what he had seen the Night's King do, she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She'd done neither, and instead had concentrated her efforts in regaining her home, executing her husband, and keeping Petyr Baelish close, so that she always knew what he was about.

But in the back of her mind, niggling, there was always the thought – how could this be? How could the creatures from Old Nan's stories be real? How could they be _here?_ Of course, in her childhood, she hadn't spent overlong listening to the most horrific of Old Nan's tales – she had a sudden image of herself, in an imperious tone, insisting on stories of Florian and Jonquil instead, of Aemon the Dragonknight.

Sansa blushed. Now I have my own Dragonknight, she thought, as her cheeks heated up. Every time she thought of the fact that she and Jon were married, now, she felt the same sensation – though it was silly, and she'd thought such things were behind her.

She was no maid, after all. Also, she could hear Jon saying, it had been _her_ idea to marry. It was a _good_ idea, she thought, as if she were still arguing with the lords of the North, with Jon. Once Jon's true parentage was known, there would be those who'd turn against him, even though Jon was the most Northern man she'd ever known. His years at the Wall had made him even rougher than she remembered.

Of course, this was just her mind trying to distract her from the issue at hand – she and Jon were husband and wife. A choking laugh forced its way through her lips – she'd be a Queen, finally, as she'd always wanted. She hadn't known, then, what horrors men could put women through. When she'd walked through the gates of Winterfell, she'd never expected to be married again, so soon, if at all.

Sansa sighed, leaning back in her chair. What had possessed her to insist on the marriage? Wasn't it obvious that a Queen must needs provide an heir for the kingdom? She could no longer claim innocence of the subject, after all.

She rubbed her lower back instinctively, fighting the urge to scratch. The scars which were her only remnant of her time with Ramsay itched and pulled. She'd made sure that they were the _only_ remnant. Even though Maester Wolkan, and a midwife she'd visited in secret, had both assured her that she was not with child, she'd still insisted on consuming tansy tea, thinking the pain that resulted as well worth it, if it meant that anything left inside her by that . . . that _creature,_ would never take root.

At least he hadn't cut her more than once. She'd screamed so long and so loud that he'd been so irritated by the noise she was making, he said that he hadn't even enjoyed causing her pain. Even more so when he opened the door to her prison, and found Maester Wolkan hovering, a worried look on his face.

The next day, with her bread and cheese, came a skin of something that smelled like wine – red wine from the South. The servant boy, who'd shown no interest in her before, except to leer at her, had one thing to say.

"Maester says it's not for drinking." He dashed out and slammed and locked the door behind him.

It took her some time to realise that the Maester must have meant it for her wounds. After some hesitation, she did her best to dab it where Ramsay had tried to flay the skin off her lower back. It had burned, at first, but then seemed to heal.

She rubbed the scars again, and for a heartbeat she was back in that room, and the breath caught in her throat. But no, that was in the past. She breathed in relief, and forced her hand away from her back.

Yes, she was married again, but this was _Jon_ , who she'd known all her life, who would never hurt her. And, she thought, with a certain bitterness, who was probably repelled by the way she was now. Sansa sighed. Sometimes she felt as though she'd been encased in ice, that she could no longer feel . . . except when she was with Jon, she suddenly realised. He made her _feel_ \- yes, exasperation and annoyance, and even anger at times, but she felt something when she was with him. He must feel something for her, too – the looks he gave her when he thought she wasn't looking, the way he'd turned crimson when she'd kissed him in this very room.

That was on the day of their marriage. The day of the dragon, she kept calling it in her thoughts, as she felt unable to think of it as the day of her marriage. Her third one, she thought wearily. What would the misses of the Red Keep think of her now? And marrying her half-brother, to boot! Though he wasn't really her brother – he was her cousin. And her husband.

No, she would not think of that now. She had a letter to write.

 _Dear brother Jon, I do not know if I can offer anything to counter such sad news. Yet I will try. People are still coming to Winterfell, seeking refuge from the snow and ice spreading from the Wall. Ser Davos has declared that the keep is full to capacity, and has ordered that Wintertown be rebuilt, to serve as a refuge – the work is hard as the days are short. But we do our best._

 _Perhaps this will bring you joy – among the people seeking refuge was Alys Karstark. You will remember her more than I – apparently she ran from her ancestral home when her uncle attempted to marry her, in order to gain the Karhold. She rode for the Wall, perhaps remembering the betrothal her father once wanted between you, but when she came to know that you were no longer there, she turned towards Winterfell instead. She's an odd girl – but I never really knew her before, and I of all people know how life can change you . . ."_

Sansa made sure to lock the room once she left, and headed towards the Maester with her letters for Jon. She'd done her best to write in the same guarded manner he had, though it was hard. Yet if the ravens were shot down and their messages read, there was nothing to even hint at the secrets they were protecting.

Walking back to the great hall, where she knew Ser Davos had asked her to preside over some housekeeping decision, she realised that she was being followed. Out of the corner of her eye she could see brown hair and a nondescript gown. Sansa stopped, and swallowed a sigh.

"Lady Alys? Is there something you need?"

The girl didn't look at all nervous, though she was doing her best to seem so, looking down, even bobbing in a curtsy.

"Lady Stark – I wondered if I could visit the crypts today. I have heard so much of the statues of the old Kings of Winter, but I was too young to see them the last time I was here."

Oh, that infuriating girl, Sansa thought. She had not offered to help in any way with the sewing once she had arrived, though Sansa wasn't sure she would have included her in the sewing circle. All the women in it were sworn to secrecy over the banners they were stitching, and Sansa herself spent as many hours at the task as she dared.

Still, it was the only work a high-born maiden could do. Sansa needed more people for the painted banners, but that was not something any ladies could participate in. When Alys had instead offered to sweep, or help in the kitchen, Sansa couldn't help but raise her eyebrows, even as she chastised herself for reverting to her old ways.

The girl had lowered her eyes, trying to seem embarrassed, it looked like – though Sansa had spent many years among dissemblers. She knew when someone was acting, and she wondered, once again, why Alys was acting like a shy, timid girl, when she obviously wasn't.

Sansa had done her best to point out that they had enough servants to clean and cook; and the servants themselves certainly wouldn't appreciate one of the gentry trying to take their place. What they really needed was another seamstress, and she'd looked at Alys in what she hoped was an encouraging way, but the girl never met her eyes.

Now here she was, wanting to visit the crypts, of all places. She would have to have an escort, but who?

As if Alys was reading her thoughts, she replied. "I don't need an escort – I know the way . . . I mean, I remember hearing . . . my father . . . talk of them."

Sansa knew the girl was lying. Who was she, really? And why had she so readily believed that a girl carrying what she said was her father's ring and buckler was actually Alys Karstark? But Sansa was tired, and she needed to see to whatever Ser Davos wanted, and what harm could the girl do, in the crypts? She'd send Tormund with her- Jon trusted him, and that was good enough for her. Also, if she was someone's spy, Tormund would make sure she would not communicate with anyone.

By the time Sansa finished her thoughts, they'd already arrived at the great hall. When she entered, she saw Tormund chatting with some of the Free Folk, and she rapidly told him what she had in mind. She turned back to Alys.

"Lady Karstark, Tormund will accompany you to the crypts."

For a heartbeat, Sansa thought she saw a look of anger in Alys's eyes, but then the girl simpered, and looked down.

"I wouldn't want to be any trouble, my lady."

"No trouble at all," Tormund said, grinning. "And I will ask Lady Bear if she will join us. She has also expressed interest in the famous Winterfell crypts."

"Lady Bear?" Sansa raised an eyebrow.

Tormund laughed. "My apologies. She is little, but she is fierce!"

Sansa sighed. "Don't let her hear you call her 'little', Tormund."

Tormund shook his head, and chivvied Lady Alys towards where Lady Mormont was sitting, and all three of them were soon heading out of the hall.

She noticed Ser Davos approaching, and suppressed the impulse to sigh again. That was another thing her mother hadn't told her – how much work running her own household really was. Something bumped the back of her knee, and Sansa successfully resisted the urge to jump.

Instead, she glanced down through her lashes. Ghost was looking up at her – if a direwolf could look sheepish, that was what it would look like. Sansa patted his head, reassuring him. She knew the wolf needed to run, to hunt, and he probably missed Jon, too. She pulled herself together, gave Ghost a final rub, then proceeded in what she hoped was a regal manner to the main table, the enormous wolf at her side. She knew they made a striking picture, and used that in all her dealings with the lords and knights in Winterfell. She was a Stark, she had a direwolf, she was the lady of her ancestral seat.

Ser Davos interrupted her thoughts with a throat-clearing which sounded nervous. At a nod, he spoke.

"My lady, when we regained the keep, you gave orders that many of the Bolton servants should be sent to Wintertown."

She had, at that. She had concentrated on the ones who had enjoyed what Ramsay did, who had benefited from it. Not the ones who only did what they did in fear for their lives, like Maester Wolkan. She tried to scrub from her mind the image of the old woman who'd given her a kind word and a candle, and who was flayed for her troubles. She swallowed, and nodded again.

"Well, not everyone left, my lady."

Two of Jon's men dragged two women towards Sansa, and they immediately dropped to their knees in front of her, sobbing.

"Please, m'lady! Don't make us go to Wintertown!"

Sansa tried to remember who they were, and she had a vague memory of them standing in line with the other servants, and her own thought of how very pretty the housemaids were, now, at Winterfell.

Soon, she knew better. Ramsay kept whores, of course he did. When she'd found out about them, she'd been resentful of the fact that _they'd_ not been beaten on a daily basis. But then Ramsay had told her what would happen to them, what would happen to _her,_ once he'd tired of her.

"I name my dogs after the whores they hunt, my lady," he'd said, the contempt heavy in his voice. "I already have a pup whose name is Sansa. Would you like to meet her?"

Sansa tightened her grip on Ghost's head, where it had been resting, and forced the memories away from her.

"The brothel has been re-opened, I hear," she said, and all the men around her lost interest in the little scene, shuffling their feet and clearing their throats in discomfort. What, did they think she didn't know all their dirty little secrets? She knew that, and much more.

The younger one looked up at her, eyes brimming with tears. "We don't want to do that anymore, m'lady."

The woman didn't say more, but the look in her eyes spoke volumes. Why was she condemning these women to what she had suffered? But they were whores, she thought angrily – this was their life.

A sudden wave of shame washed over her. Had she learnt nothing? She sounded like Cersei, with her phlegmatic shrug over the thought of the women of the Red Keep, of King's Landing, being raped by Stannis's men. Very well, if they wanted to stay, they would stay.

"Can you sew?"

The identical looks of relief on the women's faces made her face heat up with embarrassment. They nodded, and smiled through tears, with one of them trying to tell of the neatness of her stitching before she'd been sold to Lord Baelish.

Sansa forced herself to remain calm, and told Ser Davos to take them to the sewing room – it was more traditional for the lady of the house to supervise the sewing in her solar, but when what they were sewing needed to remain secret, an isolated room in the castle was better.

She murmured in Ser Davos's ear, "Start them off on the cloaks, please, and don't let the other servants bully them. They can't have made themselves popular here when Bolton was lord." She steeled herself, hating her words even as she uttered them. "Threaten them with Ghost, if you think it needful."

Ser Davos raised an eyebrow, but said nothing besides a deferential, "My lady."

Sansa leaned back against the table, wishing she could go back to bed and spend the rest of the day there. In her mind, she could see her father shaking his head at her. No, father, she raged. That was not honourable. But what had honour got her father, besides a block?

Just the mention of Lord Baelish had thrown her into a panic – what if these women were his spies? Even if they weren't, it was further proof of Petyr's collusion with Ramsay. They'd all three of them been bought and sold by Littlefinger, Sansa thought, with some bitterness. There was a nudge at her knee, as Ghost's great head butted her, almost sensing her need for comfort.

She scratched behind his ears, and he huffed happily, until she spotted a servant headed her way. Even though she wanted to stamp her feet and protest, she did not ignore him once he managed to catch her eye, and she resigned herself to not getting any time to herself that day.

"Some ravens arrived, m'lady," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Manderley and Cerwyn looked up, and Sansa exchanged looks with them, as well as Glover. That was the secret phrase they'd arranged if, or when, rather, something happened involving Jon's new status. Sansa gave her letters for Jon to the servant, and followed him out of the hall, telling the lords she needed to speak to the Maester. That too was subterfuge – they would know to join her, but not immediately.

When she left the hall, the servant was about to speak, but she whispered, 'not here', urgently, and quickly walked towards the little room where she and Jon read their letters. In the meantime, Tormund, Lady Mormont, and Alys Karstark had returned from the crypts. She caught Tormund's eye, and did her best to signal that he should follow. She hoped Alys had not seen.

The servant they'd chosen for the task was only told that the King was making alliances to keep the North safe, and so must work in secret. That, and a purse full of coin, seemed to keep his mouth shut. Sansa waited until the others joined them, then nodded at the servant to speak.

"M'lady Stark, the scouts are back – they were sent ranging, as the king instructed."

Sansa nodded, trying to hide her impatience. But the man seemed too frightened to speak.

"They saw a column, heading towards Winterfell. They could only see the front, m'lady – there were some strange men on horseback, savages, they said."

Tormund's eyebrows rose towards his hairline.

"No, not wild- free folk," he continued hastily. "They rode like they and the horses were one. Their hair was long and braided – some even braided their beards! Their weapons were strange. Their clothing was leather, not fur."

Dothraki? How? The Queen had promised, Sansa thought, cursing herself for her childish trust.

"And then," the man continued, "there were some dark-skinned men with spears and shields, and helmets. They were also on horseback, but not as assured as the others. And a few banners, too."

Sansa was almost afraid to ask. She wanted to cover her face in despair. Luckily, Lady Mormont seemed to have sensed her loss of composure.

"Which devices did they see, Beron?"

Sansa had to blink away a few frustrated tears. Gods, she was so bad at this – she hadn't even known the man's name.

Beron answered, eagerly. "It was a golden rose on a green field, m'lady. They swear it. Also . . . " He hesitated, like he thought he would be beaten for what he said next. But Lyanna nodded encouragingly, and so he continued. "A red dragon with three heads."

No-one gasped. Sansa chewed on her lip, and nodded. Ser Davos took Beron aside, and, murmuring in his ear, led him out. There was silence for a few heart beats longer.

"Is this an attack?" Lady Lyanna's voice sounded loud in the silence that had fallen, and Sansa noticed a light tinge to her pale cheeks.

"If it is, we're fucked," Tormund answered, and Sansa glared at him. "Beg pardon. But Jon told me about these Dothrakis buggers and they don't sound very friendly."

Even though Tormund had mangled the pronunciation, Sansa knew what he meant.

Lord Glover rubbed his chin. "In that letter from Queen Daenerys, she spoke of some boon she was granting . . . "

"Then what, we just open t'gates for these foreign butchers? Oh aye, we'll be set for life, then." Cerwyn wasn't helping, Sansa thought, irritated. She needed to think. Why couldn't Beron have given her the news when she was alone?

"No-one said anything about opening the gates, but we need to get closer to see how large the army is – if it is an army." Manderley tried to soothe the other lords, but they refused to be soothed.

"What else could it be?" Cerwyn snapped.

Sansa let the argument wash over her as she thought. It was something she had learned in King's Landing, and practised in this very keep, when Ramsay thought he could break her. He'd had her body, but her mind was elsewhere, far away, working through options in her head. She came to a decision.

"I will go out and meet with them, as we did with Ramsay."

All eyes were on her, most incredulous, and some worried.

"My lady – your Grace – it is far too dangerous! We must wait for the King's return, and then-" Lord Manderley's voice was frantic, and she huffed in annoyance.

"They're already here, my lord! I don't know where Jon is – he was talking of retaking Torrhen's Square, but I do not know if he has succeeded or not. We don't have the time to wait – we must take this opportunity."

Ser Davos was leaning against the door, arms folded. She turned to him.

"What do you say, Ser?"

Ever since he'd known the right way to appeal to Lady Mormont, she'd regretted her earlier dismissal of the Onion Knight.

Ser Davos answered slowly, after some thought. "All the lords must go with you, as a show of strength. Some soldiers from each House will accompany us – I hope it will be enough."

Sansa nodded, and all around her she could see the others agreeing. She just had to change one thing.

"Ser Davos, you must stay here – you and Lady Mormont-" Sansa quickly forestalled the latter, who was already opening her mouth to protest. "My lady, someone needs to be left here, who knows . . . everything."

Lady Mormont agreed, not without frowning, though.

"Let us each prepare separately, and meet at the gate in an hour, my lords."

Sansa knew she had to get some of the painted banners, and she hoped they were dry. Even though some shields were ready, they were much harder to hide than banners, which could simply be rolled up. As soon as Jon came back she would insist the castle would be told the truth. More and more people were getting separate pieces as time went by, and soon rumours would start to spread. Much better if Jon was in control of the information as it spread.

She managed to catch Tormund's eye as the others filed out, and he lingered behind. When he turned to face her, the confidence that had been carrying her forward left her in a rush, and she searched for words.

Tormund cocked his head, and smiled his small secretive smile. "Is there something you want from me, Sansa Stark?"

Jon had talked to her of the free folk, and she knew by now that he would never call her 'lady', let alone 'queen'. The use of her name still distracted her enough that it took her a few heartbeats to get across what she wanted. She licked her lips, cursing herself at the same time. Never show weakness, she could hear Petyr saying, and she pushed the thought aside.

"Yes . . . Tormund."

He grinned, but said nothing more.

"Before the battle, I told Jon that if Ramsay won, I would not come back here alive. I don't think he understood what I was asking of him." This time she cocked her head.

Tormund crossed his arms in front of his chest. "You were asking him to kill you, so that fucker would never get his hands on you again. Pardon my language."

She nodded, ignoring his last words. "Now, Jon isn't here. If the Dothraki attack . . ." Sansa shuddered at the thought. There had been so much talk at King's Landing of those savage horselords.

"That's why you don't want the girl there," Tormund said, his voice breaking into her memories.

"If going to meet them is a mistake, if we've all been tricked by Queen Daenerys . . . why should more people die?"

Sansa looked at him in hope, knowing that this was not the wildling way, that the spearwives would kill anyone who menaced them, or die in the attempt. But she was not a wildling.

"You don't believe that we can fight them?" Tormund asked, and Sansa chewed on her lip, this time, considering.

"It depends on their numbers, of course. But most of the Knights of the Vale are gone, the Northern army is a fragment of what it once was, and the free folk . . ." She hesitated to continue, and then ploughed forward. "Maybe in a siege, we can hold them off. But first I'd want them to think we were much stronger than we really are."

Tormund was nodding. "I will do this, Sansa Stark. If I see that they are preparing to attack, I will kill you. But I hope it won't come to that."

Sansa felt the relief wash over her, and smiled at him through shaky lips. "I wish Jon was here."

"So do I," Tormund said, in such a heartfelt tone that her smile grew. "Now, I'm going to get the men – don't worry, I'll tell them to hold back until I give the signal."

An hour later, Sansa rode out of the castle, flanked by the lords of the North and the Vale, and Tormund joined them, fifty wildlings behind him. Ghost padded along beside her horse, and she wished she could tell him to stay behind – if it came to the worst, the keep would need another fighter, and Ghost was worth five men.

Once they were far enough from the keep, she nodded to the outriders who unfurled the banners she had designed.

None of the lords had seen the new sigil yet, so there were gasps and approving murmurs. Tormund's eyes crinkled as he smiled at her, and she looked at the banners with a critical eye.

She had promised Jon a dragon and a wolf, and there they were, almost entwined, both white. The dragon was rearing and the wolf was snarling, and she hoped it was enough. She'd also worked on a copy of the dragon cloaks the Queen had sent – she'd only managed to sew two, but two would be enough. They were just symbolic, for such an occasion, to convince the Queen's allies that they were allies too.

They trotted at a leisurely pace, to accommodate the free folk, most of whom were on foot, but almost sooner than Sansa had wished, they saw the first outriders.

Sansa chewed her lip again, and forced herself to stop. She must be the icy Queen of the North for this, not a terrified girl. She tried to concentrate, and count the different kinds of warriors that were in front of her, but she could hardly believe the result. Had the scouts been so shocked by seeing foreign invaders that they'd exaggerated the numbers?

There _were_ strange warriors dressed in leathers, on horseback, for sure – but not many. There were dark warriors with spears and helmets, but not many. And yes, here and there, there were soldiers dressed in the colours and carrying the banners of Highgarden. But mostly what she could see were carts – so many carts.

In her musing they had ridden closer, and she reined in her horse before they were too close. An uncomfortable silence fell, broken only by the wind whipping the banners around.

One of the Highgarden men cleared his throat, and got a bound scroll out of his saddlebag.

"I am authorized to give you a letter from Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons . . ."

As he spoke, his horse stepped forward, and Ghost started a low-level growling in his throat. She could feel Tormund moving in closer, and felt a sudden terror that they would misunderstand a friendly approach.

"Read it to us!" Her voice cut through the man's introductory speech like a knife, and he stopped, looking at the foreign warriors in dismay.

One of the Dothraki and one of the other warriors were standing close together – the man in breastplate and helmet seemed to be translating for the horselord. They simply nodded – or rather, the man with the spear nodded, while the Dothraki sat on his horse, impassive.

The Tyrell man-at-arms unfurled the letter, and scanned it. "Greetings from Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains . . . "

Sansa felt her attention start to wander as the man went through all of the Dragon Queen's titles. There really didn't seem to be many Dothraki. Also, even though they were all on horseback, none of them were reaching for weapons. She wondered who the other foreigners might be until it dawned on her – the men wearing armour must be the fabled Unsullied! Why were they called 'Unsullied', though?

" . . . I send with some of my most trusted soldiers a gift for my nephew Jon Snow, King in the North, a gift of dragonglass, to fight the Night's King, our enemy coming from the Land of Always Winter . . ."

The man's voice faded away as he looked up from the parchment which the rising wind threatened to snatch out of his fingers. There was a look of madness in his eyes, as well as a plea, as though he was begging her to deny what he'd just read. All she could do was nod, confirming the writing in front of him.

"I send," he continued, his voice on the verge of cracking, "food, because Winter has come, and I will not allow my nephew's people to starve. These Dothraki and these Unsullied will be your soldiers now, Nephew – their lives are yours to do with as you please. Until we meet again, I wish you good fortune in the wars to come."

The last words came out in a whisper, and were interrupted by the Dothraki's harsh guttural question. The Unsullied translated for him.

"He asks, where is the Khal Jon Snow, kin to Daenerys Stormborn, blood of her blood?"

The Unsullied had a strong accent, but was still easy to understand.

"He is gathering troops." Sansa made sure her voice was as cold as the snow that surrounded them. "I am his wife, Sansa Stark. I decide all matters in his absence."

As soon as the Unsullied stopped talking in the harsh language, the Dothraki grinned, and said, "Khaleesi!", as he pointed at Sansa. He said some more, and when Sansa raised her eyebrows, the Unsullied hurriedly translated, gesturing towards the banners.

"He says that King Jon is the dragon, and you are the wolf, great Queen."

'Great Queen'? Was he mocking her? She looked helplessly towards the Northern lords at her side, and Lord Manderley came to her rescue.

"I am Lord Wyman Manderley, of the White Harbor. Many sailors from distant lands come there. Even some Dothraki crossed the poison water, to come to trade there."

The Dothraki nodded amongst themselves as soon as his words were translated, and listened carefully as he went on.

"One of them told me a saying, which I hear was first spoken by a great Khal: The greatest happiness is to vanquish your enemies, to chase them before you, to rob them of their wealth, to see those dear to them bathed in tears, to clasp to your bosom their wives and daughters."

The silence was almost palpable, now. She could sense weapons being gripped all around her, and her hands tightened into fists on the pommel of her saddle. As the Unsullied translated, the head Dothraki's brow furrowed. The others seemed almost lost in wistful memories, but their leader started speaking urgently, with many gestures.

"He says that life is over, for the Dothraki. They obey Daenerys Stormborn, and she says: no more. They offer themselves to you, Queen Sansa, and King Jon. They are your bloodriders, now."

"Your grace, I can confirm this was said by Queen Daenerys." The Tyrell man, who'd been listening to the exchange, took another scroll out. "It is written here, and she swears it, by Fire and Blood."

Sansa desperately wanted Jon to be there, she desperately wanted to ask someone for advice, anyone. Yes, they needed the dragonglass, and the food, oh, the food. Ser Davos was already talking of looting the countryside for provisions, except there was nothing to loot. Any crops which had been left in the fields were now under a blanket of snow and ice, and so ruined.

But could she trust these men? She wasn't just thinking of the foreigners, she realised. What would happen when Jon came back, Jaime Lannister in tow, and half a hundred Tyrell men were camped outside Winterfell? She would have to speak with the Tyrell man herself, and prepare him for the arrival of his greatest enemy. She managed to sneak a look at Ghost, who had stopped rumbling in his throat, and came to a decision.

"We accept this great gift, in the name of Jon of House Targaryen and House Stark, King in the North, Ruler of the Andals and the First Men, the White Dragon."

She heard a sharp intake of breath around her, and hoped the lords hadn't shown their surprise too openly. No, there had been no time to confer with the lords of the North about Jon's titles, and she was sure that Jon himself would have raised an eyebrow at some of them. At least she hadn't called him 'First of his name' – the one time she'd brought it up, he'd called it a Southron custom which would not be popular here, in the North.

As she rode back to the keep, flanked and followed by friends and strangers alike, she pondered about that. Was she more Southron than Northern? Had she lingered too long away from the North? Well, it wasn't like I had a choice, she told herself, crossly. While they rode, the Tyrell soldier had flanked her.

"M'lady . . . your Grace, I mean . . ."

Ah. That was another explanation she would have to give. Working out who knew the secret and who didn't was starting to give her a headache. She wished she hadn't agreed when Jon had insisted on secrecy, at least until Petyr returned and showed his hand. She opened her mouth to say this, or at least some of it, when she realised she didn't even know this man's name.

"I am Garth, m'lady, begging your pardon." If he had been standing, he would have shuffled his feet. "I am a sergeant in Lady Olenna's army – Lady Tyrell, I should say," he added hastily, looking like he was cursing himself for the oversight.

"How did this come to pass?" Sansa burst out, and then bit her lip. That wasn't very queenly. But the sergeant hadn't noticed her lack of manners, and understood what she was asking.

"They don't tell us much, your Grace. All we knew is that we left King's Landing with Lady Olenna – thank the Seven, the lady insisted on taking most of the army with her – and a few days later, the ravens arrived." He shook his head, his eyes shining, before blinking rapidly, under control once more. "There had been an eruption of wildfire, under the Sept of Baelor." His face was hard, now, like it had been carved out of oak. "Lord Tyrell, Queen Margaery, Ser Loras, many others . . . " He shook his head. "The Sept itself, all of the statues of the gods . . . all gone. The great bell will toll no more."

Sansa slid a look to the side. Was he a poet, this plain sergeant from the Reach? He spoke well enough, for one of the smallfolk. She could hardly believe it – all those families, courtiers, burned to ash. She could not bring herself to be sad about the Sept, though. Her hands tightened on the reins. If she could have, she'd have destroyed it herself. For a heartbeat, she remembered the scene – her poor father, being forced to his knees, tricked into confessing to treason, all to save her. She shook the memory away and, forcing herself to concentrate on the present, looked the sergeant directly in the eyes.

"There are two things that must happen now, Sergeant. First, you must forget all that you have seen in this past hour. I am not Queen, and King Jon is not a Targaryen. Winterfell may have spies who wish us harm, who wish Queen Daenerys harm."

Garth looked puzzled at first, then he nodded slowly. "I will explain to Black Dog. He will tell Vrelo, the Dothraki."

Sansa knew that her eyebrows were soaring into her hairline. "Black . . . Dog?"

The Unsullied in question had drawn close. "Yes, oh Queen?"

Sansa told herself sternly to pull herself together. "Your name – is it tradition?" she managed, weakly.

Black Dog frowned. "When Unsullied were slaves, before Mhysa, our mother, freed us, we were given . . . bad, low names. Every day, a different name. But Queen Daenerys freed us, and told us we could go back to the name we once had . . . before."

Sansa nodded, feeling her insides shrinking in horror, though she was careful to show nothing on her face.

"Some went back to their own name. Grey Worm, our general, kept his slave name, because it was the name he had when Mhysa freed him. But I could no longer remember my name. So I choose a new name." He shrugged. "It matters not. I know who I am."

Garth's mouth had fallen open, and he glared at Black Dog. "What was all that then, on the way here: I not understand, Ser Garth, I stupid Unsullied, Lord Garth! You speak common better than some of my men!"

Black Dog's face remained impassive, though Sansa noted a twinkle in his eye. "In a foreign land, it is sometimes good to appear stupid."

He rode away, and Garth rubbed his forehead. "M'lady, what was the second thing you needed?"

Sansa took her time. This was not going to be easy. On the other hand, she needed to explain this before they reached Winterfell. "King Jon, my husband, is gathering troops. He needs to make alliances, and quickly."

Garth frowned. "Yes, m'lady, you did say that . . ." He stopped himself, abruptly. "Who, then?" he continued, with the air of a man steeling himself for bad news.

"Lord Jaime Lannister." She spoke quietly, afraid of saying the name out loud, as though the birds of the air were going to caw the cursed name to all.

Sansa snuck a look at the sergeant – his jaw was clenched. Occasionally, he opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again.

"His bitch sister all but destroyed our lady's family, and his father destroyed yours."

"He is not his sister, nor his father," Sansa countered, even though all she wanted to do was agree. "Besides, we need his army."

"He killed King Aerys – if the Queen finds out that he is here . . . "

"She will not find out, Sergeant – not from you." Sansa did not raise her voice, and made sure that no emotion could be heard in it. She'd been told it was rather intimidating. In fact, Garth went pale.

"You will understand me, Sergeant. We are here, in the worst winter for centuries, and we are being attacked by creatures from the old stories, things out of our nightmares. If we stand together, we might have a chance." She winced, hearing the words of House Frey, but ploughed on. "If we fight amongst ourselves, we die. Do you understand, Garth? We all die."

She noticed that it had grown strangely quiet around her – the only sounds were the jingling tack of horses and a murmur which she recognised as Black Dog, translating for the Dothraki. She looked up and saw that even the Northern lords had stopped talking amongst themselves and were staring at her. Good. Perhaps it had been the first time she'd admitted it, out loud; but she believed Jon, and Tormund, and the wildlings.

"Besides, you should be happy that the Lannister army will not return to King's Landing, to defend it."

Sansa tried hard to keep the hatred for Cersei Lannister out of her voice. She wasn't sure she'd succeeded.

They had by now arrived at the gate, and as they approached, it opened, and Ser Davos emerged.

"My lady?" His eyes widened as he saw the long line of carts approaching the keep, the Dothraki with their braided beards and long locks, the clean-shaven, heavily armored Unsullied, and the Tyrell men in green and gold, the rose of Highgarden fluttering above them.

She turned to Garth. "Ser Davos is the castellan of Winterfell. He will direct the distribution of the food and the dragonglass. We will also need to find accommodation for the Tyrell soldiers, I believe."

Ser Davos's eyes widened and the corners of his mouth twitched, as though he couldn't allow himself to be happy, to have hope. She inclined her head, and, though she was speaking to Davos, raised her voice so that even the men on the battlements could hear her.

"The Great Queen Daenerys blesses us with many gifts."

Ser Davos strode forward, followed by some of the servants of the keep, and started directing the men, helped by Tormund, as soon as he understood that the Tyrell soldiers needed to be sent to Wintertown.

Sansa was just about to ride through the gates when Ser Davos gave her an urgent look.

"My lady, wait!"

"What is it?" she asked, but somehow, she knew. It was all too good to be true, wasn't it? Something just had to go wrong.

"My dear Lady Sansa!" The familiar voice, with its indefinable burr which could be from anyplace, really, slithered down her back, causing a shudder.

Petyr Baelish stood in the gateway, smiling. Through the open gate she could see more Knights of the Vale than she remembered being there before she'd left, and now she understood why Ser Davos had seemed so guarded.

He was back, and Jon wasn't here. She forced her lips into a welcoming smile, but prepared herself to avoid his embrace, to feign approval of his plans. Once again, she would start her performance, as she had done in King's Landing, as she'd done in the Vale. For the first time in a long while, she prayed, to the Seven, to the old gods, even to the Lord of Light – whoever was listening. Bring Jon back, she prayed, and bring him back soon.

.

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.

 **Notes** :

I wanted to bring out that there are duties involved in being the Lady of Winterfell - it's not all wearing kickass outfits and sitting at a long table - hope I was successful!

Also, the 'Dothraki saying' that Lord Manderley shares is one which has been attributed to Genghis Khan - as the Dothraki seem to be ASoIaF version of the Mongol hordes, I thought it fit.


	9. Chapter 9

Notes: Thank you so much for all your faves and follows!

This chapter is with Jaime and Brienne after the White Walker attack - but we're back at Winterfell soon! Let's just see what Jaime thinks of the whole thing, first.

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 _Jaime read it in the window seat, bathed in the light of that cold white morning. Qyburn's words were terse and to the point, Cersei's fevered and fervent._ Come at once, she said. Help me. Save me. I need you now as I have never needed you before. I love you. I love you. I love you. Come at once.

 _Vyman was hovering by the door, waiting, and Jaime sensed that Peck was watching too. "Does my lord wish to answer?" the maester asked, after a long silence._

 _A snowflake landed on the letter. As it melted, the ink began to blur. Jaime rolled the parchment up again, as tight as one hand would allow, and handed it to Peck. "No," he said. "Put this in the fire."_

 _(A Feast for Crows, Chapter 44, Jaime VII)_

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 **Chapter 9 _  
_**

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Brienne stepped back from the makeshift pyre, and staggered to the side.

Jaime caught her before she fell to the ground. It was only when he asked her if she was well, and received no reply, that he realised she'd fainted dead away. He tried to support her as best he could, while holding on to his sword and watching out for . . . what had they called those walking corpses? Wights?

Why hadn't he _listened_ when Jon Snow talked about his experiences and what they faced? All he could remember thinking was of Cersei, and how to get back to her as soon as possible. He remembered planning to play along, to fool the others, until he could somehow escape. Granted, his conscience did twinge when he thought of Brienne, and her faith in him.

But he brushed it away, and his conscience did not trouble him again, rotted and festering thing that it was. All of this worked, right until the Kingsroad took them through the Neck. Had it been that bad when he'd first ridden to Winterfell, with King Robert? Or had he just been younger then, less burdened?

It was then that Jaime had realised that this was not a game, that this was life or death to all of them. He shuddered at the memory of that horrendous place, the eerie silence, the cloying, suffocating air, and the enormous lizard-creatures watching them from every slimy pool of water they passed. Then, when they'd emerged, he'd found out that there were worse things than swamps, and murderous beasts.

Was Jaime imagining things, or was the attack slowing down? Brienne killing the ice warrior might have taken the heart out of the ambush, but he was not reassured by this. It had been a simple skirmish, and they had shown themselves to be woefully unprepared. As he watched, the last few wights burst into flames, courtesy of a now familiar large white dragon, and it was easy enough for Bronn and his sergeant to cut them down.

"Bronn," he called, and the man looked up, catching sight of them immediately.

"Still alive, I see," Bronn said as soon as he walked up, and Jaime fought the temptation to roll his eyes.

"You're very observant. Do you know how to revive her? After Podrick, she . . ."

Bronn nodded, and Jaime felt a wave of shame wash over him. Podrick had been Bronn's friend too, and now he was dead. Defending _him,_ naught that he was. Bronn turned to where the sergeant was, and called to him, just indicating Brienne slumped over Jaime's shoulder, which was starting to pain him.

The sergeant didn't even change expression. He fished in his bag for a very small flask, and carefully unstoppered it, wafting it under Brienne's nose. Just as Jaime caught a hint of the smell, and his eyes started to water, Brienne gasped, and came awake. The sergeant nodded, and walked away.

Brienne tried to turn, murmuring 'Pod' under her breath, and Jaime pulled her around to face him. He deliberately shook his head, and watched as her eyes filled with tears.

"I wanted to save him," Brienne whispered, her voice broken.

"You _did,"_ he answered. "You saved him from servitude to that monster, from wandering around, dead-alive. You saved him from killing the ones he loved."

Brienne nodded, but wouldn't meet his eyes. "I must take my leave, Ser," she said, and she was turning away before she even finished speaking.

A short distance away, Jaime could see Bronn and the sergeant arguing with Jon Snow, while the dragon flew above, occasionally screeching. He rubbed his face and the back of his head, and decided to join them, even though he'd rather reassure the men. Though what could he tell them? That everything would be well?

"They must be buried!" The sergeant sounded like he was clinging to something familiar in a world gone mad, but Jaime couldn't blame him.

"No, they must not!" Jon's Northern burr was stronger than ever, Jaime thought. He also couldn't blame Jon for what he was sure the man was insisting on – not after watching Podrick, so clearly dead, get up and prepare to attack the people who'd been his closest companions in life.

"Your Grace," he called as he walked up, hoping to interrupt his sergeant before the man said something they'd all regret. "Can this . . . Night King bring back any mortal who has died? Whenever they died?"

Jon Snow nodded solemnly. He pointed at the men who were dragging bodies towards others who were digging ditches. "Ask any of your survivors and they'll tell you they fought with dead men who were just bones. Cut off any of their arms and the arm will keep fighting you. The only remedy," he insisted, "is fire."

"Then so it must be," Jaime said, keeping a steady eye on his sergeant as he spoke. "I have heard that some Houses burn their dead as a matter of course."

Jon Snow, who was rubbing a scar on his forehead, seemed relieved. "The Tully family do so, and of course the Targaryens, my kin."

"Our fallen should be treated with respect," the sergeant insisted, and Jaime bit his tongue before asking how much respect any of them had afforded defeated soldiers, betrayed allies, in the past. Was throwing bodies on a heap a sign of respect? At least fire cleansed, he thought, and managed to control a shudder which threatened when a memory came to him, of a crazed voice screeching, "Burn them all!"

"And they will be," Jaime answered instead, keeping his voice gentle. He marvelled at himself. He was recovering from the shock of seeing the impossible come to life rather quickly, he thought.

Jon Snow looked up at his dragon, and the creature swooped down, landing close enough for Jaime to struggle to keep his balance when its enormous wings flapped. Snow vaulted onto its back, and spoke quickly.

"Say what prayers you must over the dead. Signal us when you are ready."

Jaime nodded. Next to him, Bronn sighed. "Is there a septon with the army?"

Jaime rolled his eyes. "No. Of course not. Was there even one septon left in all of King's Landing when we marched away?"

They walked towards the men as they spoke, with the sergeant simmering as he kept pace. Jaime felt a niggle of worry – the man was a good soldier, one of the best. They couldn't afford to lose any more.

Later that day, Jaime watched Brienne say a prayer over the bodies of the dead and wondered whether he was awake or dreaming. As it turned out, she was the only one versed in the knowledge of the _The Seven-Pointed Star,_ enough to pray over the dead. She finished, and strode away, but not towards him – towards the spearwives. Brienne had told him that the wildlings worshipped the old gods and carved faces into the weirwood trees, but that some of them were curious about the Seven, and wondered if those gods would be more potent. Not if one judged by what was left of the Sept of Baelor, Jaime'd answered, and regretted it when Brienne's face fell.

"So, what are you going to do about her, then?" Bronn was standing next to him as they watched the dragon set the dead aflame.

"What?" Jaime answered, only half listening. They'd _all_ be dead if that bloody Northerner hadn't flown in on his dragon, and was that all they were for him? A distraction from Winterfell? Or were they fodder for this Night King's army, instead? "Maybe I should have stayed at the Twins, let Tully put me in a cell, sent you back to King's Landing."

"Have you lost what little wits you had, _my lord?"_ Bronn was glaring at him. "Do you think I'd last two heartbeats with your sister if I came back without you? Your twin brother? He's chained to the wall in a castle in the Riverlands. Aye, I enjoy being tortured, how'd you guess?"

Bronn spun around, glaring, trying to find an outlet for his rage, but there was no-one close by. "And that's not the woman I mean, and you know it. Do you know what they call the Maid of Tarth when your back is turned?"

Jaime blinked. Since when did Bronn care about what they said about Brienne? Of course, he knew what they called her.

"Since when do _you_ care what they call her," he answered, not bothering to mask his irritation.

"Podrick cared," Bronn ground out, and Jaime couldn't hold back a wince. "And so should you," he concluded.

Jaime did care, he really did, but what could he do about it? He opened his mouth to say the same to Bronn, but was interrupted by a screech, and the great flapping of mighty wings.

That evening, Jaime was instructed to call a council in his tent. It had never seemed that small, but it was now full to bursting with his sergeants, Bronn, Brienne, Jon Snow, and the spearwives. The latter had just looked at Bronn blankly when asked who was their leader – then one of them had spat to the side, answering: "Tormund Giantsbane". And that was the end of _that_ conversation. Jaime was just wondering peevishly if the dragon wanted to squeeze in too, when Jon Snow gave him a significant look.

Jaime's heart sank. The king's intention was clear – Jaime needed to speak, and he'd been dreading it. He hadn't said much to his men; about where they were going, what they were doing here, in the North.

The guards who'd been on duty when Brienne had joined them in the Riverlands had known about Jon Snow and his dragon, long before anyone else. Even though they hadn't believed any of it, they'd still spread the news far and wide. Then, when the truth came out, they'd been smug about having knowledge denied their betters. One of them had died during the White Walker attack.

Jaime bit back a sigh, and stopped himself from fidgeting. His father's voice intruded on his thoughts, threatening to tie his hands behind his back until he learned to stand still, like a man. He knew what he had to say to his sergeants. More or less.

"Have the men been made to understand why the bodies must be burned?" Jaime decided to start with the uncomfortable questions.

Only one of the sergeants would meet his eyes. "They saw their friends die, and then get up again to fight them. So yes, they understand _that._ "

"What they don't understand," another burst in, "is what we're doing here, in the North, fighting monsters. Begging your pardon, m'lord," he added, belatedly obsequious.

"We are here," Jaime said sharply, "because I have sworn fealty to Jon Snow, the King in the North."

All eyes in the tent fixed on Jon Snow, while the latter quirked an eyebrow at him. Perhaps Jaime was stretching the truth slightly. He hadn't got on his knees, as such, but he'd known there was no turning back once he'd realised the Others were real, and were attacking the living, everywhere.

"I would have thought that this battle made everything clear," he continued, unable to strip the anger from his voice. "There is no more North and South, no Kingsmen, no Queensguard . . . there are only the living and the dead. We must stop them here, before they march further."

The sergeants exchanged looks, but said nothing more.

"Is there rebellion amongst the men? Tell me true!"

His most trusted man gave a shrug. "They have heard tell of dragons, and a dragon queen. Now that they've seen one, and he's on their side, they'd rather be behind dragons than in front of them."

Jaime looked at Jon Snow, silently asking if it was enough, and the king nodded. It was clear that he agreed – not much more would be got out of the soldiers. And even though he'd threatened them, Jaime didn't think Jon Snow was the type to burn common soldiers.

"How many camp followers do you have?" Snow asked, and Jaime felt a crease between his brows start to form, along with a stabbing pain behind his eye. Camp followers? What camp followers?

The sergeants were looking everywhere in the tent, except at the man who'd asked them the question.

"Why do I feel I'm commanding a flock of sheep at the moment? Answer the king!"

A sergeant cleared his throat. "About two hundred, women and children."

"About two hundred?" Jaime couldn't believe his ears.

"They're not all whores, my lord," the sergeant hastened to add.

"I should think not," Jaime answered, but the sergeant went on, not comprehending what Jaime was getting at.

"When we marched for the Riverlands again, after the Sept of Baelor . . . uh . . . collapsed, many of the soldiers' wives refused to stay in King's Landing, or the Crownlands. They only felt safe with their men. Of course, no one thought we would be heading North, my lord."

So, it's _my_ fault that they're in danger, Jaime thought, and suppressed a wince. He didn't dare ask what they thought of him turning his cloak for this King in the North.

Jon interrupted his thoughts again. "We will be marching on Torrhen's Square – it is lightly garrisoned, with half a hundred, a hundred Ironborn, at most. Once it is taken, the greater part of the army will stay there. The camp followers will be in the keep, of course. Also, I am raising Ser Bronn of the Blackwater to lord of Torrhen's Square."

Jaime felt as though Robert had risen from the grave and slammed him in the chest with that monstrous Warhammer of his. Bronn, lord of a castle at last.

There was silence for a few heartbeats, then Bronn cleared his throat. "Those Ironborn are bloody madmen, or so I've been told. Are you going to burn them out?"

Jaime winced, thinking that perhaps Bronn should moderate his tone with royalty, but Jon hadn't protested, was simply shaking his head. As were the sergeants.

"Begging your pardon, my lord, your . . . Grace," one of the sergeants answered, and Jaime raised an eyebrow. So, they'd decided, had they?

Both Jaime and Jon gave the man a nod, so he continued.

"The men need a victory – a clear victory. A battle they understand, and one they can win."

Jon Snow looked like he agreed. "They need to _not_ be fighting their own companions, risen from the dead. Viserion will burn the gate, and that is all. We don't have time for a prolonged siege."

Jaime considered the plan, though he'd already decided it was a good one. "Very well. When do you suggest we march?"

They marched through the night, a strangely silent company, with torches all along the perimeter, and a dragon flying above them, occasionally lighting up the sky above and before them. Jon Snow rode with them, not looking happy at all, even though they were not attacked in the hours before Jaime saw light in the east signalling the sunrise.

They camped for a few hours, the men instructed to get some sleep, before they started another forced march. Jaime rode around, making sure no-one was being left behind, exchanging nods with Brienne and the spearwives. Gods, he knew he needed to talk to her, but what could he say? It was his fault that she had lost her most trusted companion – what could he possibly offer her, in compensation?

Jaime rode to the van once more, and his horse trotted in step next to the King's.

"Your Grace," he started, and the king gave him a sideways look. But he persevered. "I noticed that you seemed to be looking around you as we marched."

Jon Snow sighed. "My friend Samwell, in the Night's Watch, was at the Fist of the First Men, when they were attacked by the Others. A force three hundred strong, but fifty men were left to try and reach the Wall. Tormund Giantsbane, the leader of the Free Folk, has told me how he and his people were harried all the while as they tried to reach the Wall . . . all of this, _at night_."

Jaime had been nodding, pretending he understood, when Snow's last words hit him. "You expected another attack."

The king nodded. "Isn't that what you would have done, Ser Jaime? Keep hitting the enemy, making soldiers disappear? But we weren't attacked again . . . so, where are they?"

Jaime had no answer to this. The one attack he'd witnessed had taken place early in the morning. He shuddered as he remembered the racing clouds, followed by a thick fog, falling snow. Afterwards, he'd gone around, trying to reassure his men, and he'd found young soldiers who, having never even seen snow, were almost as shaken by that as by the fact that dead men had fought them.

A few days later, Torrhen's Square rose in the distance as they marched. It was a castle close to a lake, which could have been useful, except it wasn't close enough for defensive purposes, Jaime thought.

As the army approached, Jaime saw that the battlements were filling up with Ironborn, all in chainmail, all holding swords and shields. But, just as Jon Snow had promised, they were not many. Not more than a hundred. Still, they could have held off the army in a siege. For a short while, at least. The Ironborn leader seemed to be reading Jaime's thoughts.

"Get the fuck away, Southron scum!" The man hawked and spat over the battlements. "You're not getting over these walls, not if you throw all your men at them!"

A mutter of discontent went through the Lannister men, but they'd been warned to keep quiet and wait.

"What're you waiting for, cowards?" the Ironborn jeered, but he was interrupted.

The sound of enormous flapping wings filled the air, and a hot wind threatened to push Jaime off his horse. The men on the battlements were no longer looking at the armies surrounding the castle. Instead, they were staring into the sky, behind him, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to look around, or dive for cover.

"Every time I hear that bloody thing, I think I'm going to be on fire!" Bronn complained, and Jaime bit down a laugh, glad for the distraction from his own terror.

Viserion flew overhead, and screeched as he hovered in front of the leader of the Ironborn. Jaime saw the man's eyes widen as he glimpsed the rider on the dragon's back.

"I am Jon Snow, the King in the North, son of Rhaegar Targaryen, last Dragon Prince! I come to give you word from your Queen, Yara Greyjoy. She is allied with Queen Daenerys, and bids you and your men join her, on Pyke!"

Jaime saw the Ironborn's expression change – from terrified wonder to disgust, as soon as the man heard Yara's name.

"Fuck that cunt! She has no right to the Salt Throne! Fuck her and her cockless brother! We follow Euron! He is the rightful king!"

All the men on the battlements started banging their swords against their shields, shouting "Euron! Euron!", until Jaime thought he would go deaf, or mad. Or both.

"I am giving you a choice," Jon Snow shouted back, the anger clear in his voice now. "Leave this castle, go home, or die here!"

Nothing changed, except their words. "What is dead may never die!" they screamed. "But rises again, harder and stronger!"

"What is dead may never die!" and "Euron!" they shouted, working themselves up into a frenzy.

The air filled with yelling and banging of sword and shield, and Jaime realised that there would be no negotiations, after all. Not that he had expected the Ironborn to surrender. He and Bronn exchanged looks, and Bronn shook his head. Then the dragon turned towards the great gate, the main entrance to the castle. The noise which followed was so loud, Jaime didn't hear the word which Jon Snow had said was High Valyrian for dragonfire, but he must have said it, for the gate exploded into a fiery ruin. Jaime signalled his sergeants, who started waving the men through the breach, and soon the air was full of clashing and clanging, screams and curses.

His men shouted "Lannister", and "Casterly Rock," "Hear us Roar!" Jaime said nothing. Would they be made to shout "Fire and Blood", now, or "Winter is coming"? A huge white shape landed next to his horse, which rolled its eyes nervously. Jon Snow bounded off, and got on his own horse, whispering a few words to the dragon, which flew away.

Then Brienne rode up, accompanied, as always, by the spearwives, and they all waited for the battle to be over.

It didn't last very long. The Ironborn fought to the last man, refusing to surrender. Before he knew it, Jaime was sitting behind a large table on an ornate chair, and Bronn was on one side. Jon Snow was standing at the other, arms folded. The expression on Bronn's face could only be described as skeptical.

"What's all this then?"

Jon answered before Jaime could. "You're their lord now, Ser Bronn. That means you need to hear grievances."

It had been worth it, Jaime thought. The whole battle with the Ironborn had been worth it just to see the look on Bronn's face.

The servants and all the smallfolk who'd been living in the keep filed in, looking nervous. There were fewer women than men, which was a message in and of itself. One of the women pushed her way through the others, though, glaring at all of them. A small boy was clinging to her skirts.

"What's going to happen to us, now? Are we to be used by the Lannisters the same way the Ironborn used us?"

Jaime opened his mouth to answer, but Jon shook his head, and glanced at Bronn.

After a pause, Bronn answered her. "No. Of course not. King Jon, here, has freed you from them."

The woman folded her arms, not placated. "Who are _you,_ then?"

Jon Snow cleared his throat. "This is Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. He will be your new lord, now. Unless there are any Tallharts left."

The woman shook her head. "They were taken away, by the first Ironborn who came here. We don't know where they went."

The boy pulled at her skirts, and she seemed to notice he was there. Her face hardened. "This keep is full of bastards! What will you do about that, hey?"

Bronn looked at Jaime helplessly, his store of Flea Bottom wisdom depleted. Jon Snow wasn't much help either, Jaime realised. It was too painful a subject for a man who'd been called bastard all his life. Jaime cleared his throat.

"What is your name, good woman?" he asked, in his most smooth and cultured voice.

She gave him a suspicious look, but answered, her tone surly. "Nettles."

"Very well, then, Nettles. Do the women in the keep wish to bring up these children? "

She considered, ruffling the boy's hair all the while. "I can't speak for the others, mind. But I do love him, though he is my shame. . . "

She looked to the side, seemingly lost in a horrendous memory, but then she brushed it away, and glared at Jaime again. "But what will he do, when men call him bastard and treat him ill? Which father will want him for a goodson?"

Jaime paused, as if to think. He had something in mind, though, and hoped Jon Snow would agree with what he was about to propose. "This,' he said, with a grand gesture at the man, "is Jon Snow, the King in the North. He will legitimize these children."

Nettles looked blank.

"I will decree that these children are no longer bastards." The king seemed to have understood that the woman needed simpler language. "The maester of the Lannister army will write down each child's name, and the name of the father. If that is your wish."

The woman stared into space for a heartbeat. "A boy needs to know who his father was," she mused. "Even though I never want to hear his name again. Still," she added, looking down, "it's not _his_ fault."

The boy had put his thumb in his mouth and was swinging from side to side on her skirts.

"I will tell the other women – they're all in hiding."

Jaime gave Jon Snow a sidelong look, and saw his face harden.

"There's no need for that. Lord Lannister's soldiers know that any rapers will be beheaded."

Jaime nodded. Oh, they knew.

The woman was looking at him. "You're the one they call the Kingslayer?" she asked, and Jaime had to raise an eyebrow, impressed.

"That I am."

Nettles considered him for a few moments, then turned back to Jon Snow, and fell into a deep curtsy, pulling the boy to his knees beside her.

"Thank you, your Grace."

She chivvied her boy out of the great hall, and the male servants seemed to get encouraged all in a rush. Jaime sent a guard for the maester, hoping he knew how to make tansy tea. Jaime had a feeling some of the women would want that, instead of more babies.

He took the opportunity to sneak out of the hall, and was soon joined by Jon Snow. Jaime raised an eyebrow.

"I have enough people waiting at Winterfell, storing up grievances to air to me, my lord," the king said ruefully.

Jaime smiled, and then glimpsed a shock of blond hair out of the corner of his eye. No use putting it off, then, he thought. Might as well get it over with.

"Excuse me, your Grace. I have a matter to attend to . . . " Jaime trailed off, but Jon Snow followed his line of sight, and his lips twitched into something that was almost a smile.

Jaime managed to catch up with Brienne before she entered the courtyard of the keep, and called her name.

"If I could have a few words, my lady," he ventured, and she glared at him.

"I'm not a-" She rolled her eyes. "What is it, my lord?" she answered, stressing the last word.

"I am so sorry about Podrick," Jaime blurted out, even though it wasn't why he'd stopped her. "I can't help but feeling it was my fault."

But Brienne was shaking her head. "If it was anyone's fault, it was mine," she whispered. "I should have trained him better, or left him at Winterfell."

"No – he wanted to be a knight," Jaime said, "I will never forget his sacrifice. But I need to speak about another matter."

Brienne's eyebrows rose, and her eyes filled with trepidation. Jaime swallowed hard and continued.

"I would like to write to your father, Lady Brienne."

The look on her face changed from puzzled to murderous as he watched.

"Are you still trying to send me home, my lord? You have no right to send me anywhere, Ser!"

"No, that's not what I meant. I want to ask him for your hand in m-"

The blow to his stomach took him by surprise, and a few moments passed as he gasped for breath. He took the time to thank the Seven that he'd started this conversation in a deserted passage.

"Have you lost your mind?" Brienne hissed in his ear. "Do you think I want your pity, that I desire it?"

Jaime looked up, and his face was so close to hers that he could kiss her, but didn't dare. He could hear Bronn laughing in his head, as he stared into her eyes. They'd never looked more beautiful, even as they burned with rage. Bronn's gales of laughter were joined by others, and soon everyone he'd ever known was pointing at him and laughing – his sister, his father, Tyrion – laughing at the ridiculous situation he found himself in.

"It's not pity," he gasped, when he could breathe enough to speak. Brienne was on the verge of storming out, but she paused.

Her face was closed off, in anger, perhaps. But there was a brittleness to it, as though she could just as easily burst into tears as punch him again. He took off his glove with some difficulty, and cradled her cheek.

"Tell me you love me and I'll spit in your face," Brienne said, and her voice shook.

I don't know what I feel, Jaime thought. I only know I can't bear to think of men thinking ill of you, treating you without respect.

"Are we not friends then, my lady?" he asked, trying to dispel the tension in the air.

"I think we are," Brienne answered, giving him a smile through trembling lips.

"Can I not protect my friend from evil tongues, from ill-will?"

Brienne looked away. "Marriage is rather a drastic step in that direction, my lord."

Jaime smiled. She hadn't run away. She was still listening to him. "Back at the Neck, we had an unfinished conversation, my lady."

Brienne's cheeks turned a deep crimson, and she dropped her eyes. Then she frowned, and fixed her eyes on him. Her lips met his almost angrily, almost as though she was trying to prove something to herself and to him. Just as she tried to pull away, he slid his arm around her waist and pulled her to him, kissing her in return. He kept the kiss gentle, as he stroked her back, and she gasped, which was his chance to slip his tongue into her mouth. She pulled away almost immediately, looking startled.

"Is that how lovers kiss?" she blurted out, her cheeks flaming redder than before.

"Yes, my dear," he answered, and the puzzlement on her face increased.

Then her face hardened. "You take me for a fool, my lord. I know you love your sister, above all others."

"I have loved her all my life. She is the mother of my children. But she never loved me. Not like you do. Can that be enough?"

"I never thought I'd marry at all, much less to someone I lov- have feelings for. Septa Roelle always said that someone who looked like I did-"

"How can I hate a woman without ever having met her?" Jaime fumed, interrupting.

Brienne giggled.

"Besides, I'm hardly a great catch," he continued. "When the Queen finds out that I'm here, what's to stop her from flying over on her dragon and setting me on fire? After all, I killed her father."

Brienne cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. It occurred to him that he was supposed to be proposing marriage, not wallowing in self-pity.

"I have feelings for you too," he said, "I don't know about love. I'm not a poet," he added, an acerbic tone creeping into his voice, and she smirked. "I ask you again, my lady. Can that be enough?"

Brienne was chewing on her lips, giving him the occasional hunted look. Then she raised herself to her full height, but her voice was still hesitant. "Yes." Brienne spoke so low he hardly heard her at first. "I accept."

Jaime pulled her in for another kiss, only to find her hand splayed on his chest, keeping them apart.

"Not before we're married," she said decisively, as she grabbed his surcoat and dragged him behind her to the courtyard.

"'tis just a kiss, my lady," he said, even as he allowed himself to be dragged out.

"Not before we're married," she repeated, "and you need to spar, my lord. I think you're growing fat and indolent in the North."

"Brienne!"

Sitting gingerly on his horse, the next morning, Jaime tried to catalogue all the bruises he'd been gifted with during the sparring session. Though it had been worth it, to see Bronn and the king's faces when he'd told them of his hopes for a betrothal with Brienne. If her father agreed, that is.

Jon Snow walked his horse so that they were riding side by side, and looked at him quizzically.

"Lady Brienne is my wife's companion and protector, Ser Jaime. She will not appreciate any insult offered her."

Jaime pressed his lips together in irritation. "I am not trying to insult her! In fact, I want to ward off evil rumors and . . . insults."

"You think being called the Kingslayer's Wife is better than the Kingslayer's Whore?"

"I wish people would stop calling me that. It's been twenty years."

Jon Snow gave one of his half smiles and shook his head. He too must be tired of being called 'bastard' wherever he went. If he even was a bastard – he remembered wondering where Ser Arthur Dayne and Lord Whent had gone, back when he was busily breaking his oaths. Though he hadn't wondered for very long. Gods, he'd been such an idiot then.

"A question, if I may, your Grace."

Jon Snow raised an eyebrow, combining it with a tired look. Jaime ignored it. Jon Snow was going to have to get used to being addressed like a king – things couldn't be _that_ different up North, surely.

"You legitimised what seemed like an endless succession of children, back at Torrhen's Square. But why . . . " Jaime ran out of words, but the king seemed to understand what remained unspoken.

"Why don't I legitimise myself, do you mean?" Jon Snow's brow furrowed, and he rubbed a scar which bisected his eyebrow. "Ser Jaime, what do you think Queen Daenerys would do, if I put it about that I was the legitimate son of Rheagar Targaryen?"

Jaime opened his mouth and closed it again. "You would be the rightful heir to the Iron Throne! Your claim would supersede hers."

"One Dance of the Dragons was enough, Ser Jaime. And I doubt that the Night King cares about our squabbles. No, a bastard I am, and a bastard I'll stay. Though I might take my wife's name." Jon Snow's voice turned wistful. "I've always dreamed of being a Stark, and I remember reading that it's been done in the past."

Jaime nodded. "Yes, it has. And Queen Daenerys will feel less threatened by King Jon Stark, than King Jon Targaryen."

"Aye." Jon Snow paused, his brow furrowed. "Don't misunderstand me, the queen did not seem to feel threatened by me. But who knows what her advisors will say, one day. And the North must remain under Northern rule." The king gave him a friendly nod, and rode off to speak with the wildling women.

Jaime had left half of his forces at Torrhen's Square, along with Bronn, who'd started learning what being the lord of a castle meant. Before leaving, he'd made sure that ravens were sent to Tarth, and he hoped he would have an answer soon.

The ride to Winterfell was uneventful, and the Lannister army soon grew used to having the king they'd sworn fealty to fly around them on his dragon, then dismount, and ride some way on horseback. Jaime often found himself lost in thought, wondering whether he'd done the right thing – whether he wasn't putting Brienne in more danger by allying her fortunes with his. What did he have to offer her anyway? He had no doubt that Casterly Rock was beyond his reach, and he would never return to King's Landing. He couldn't even offer her a whole body.

As he was lost in thought the jingle of a horse's tack made him look up. Brienne gave him a half-smile, followed by a quizzical look.

"Are you regretting your offer, already, Ser Jaime?"

Jaime shook his head, an unwilling smile making his lips twitch. She'd changed, so much, from when they'd first met.

"Of course not, Lady Brienne. I would have thought you have much more to regret – agreeing to marry a one-handed pauper, who might yet be imprisoned for murder by the new Targaryen Queen."

Brienne rolled her eyes at him.

"Don't worry, Ser Jaime. We'll keep you safe."

Just as he was about to ask who she meant by 'we', a shout from the returning outriders drew their attention to the keep which had just appeared on the horizon. Winterfell was in sight. He and his sergeants had prepared for this moment. They couldn't very well change all the colours and devices of his army, but they had enough Stark standards to suffice. Jaime looked at his own shoulder, and winced. Perhaps the lion pauldrons had been a bit much.

As they approached the keep, Jaime noted something which Jon Snow had not warned him about. Looking to his side, it was clear that neither Brienne, nor the king had expected this, either. Though Jon Snow was soon distracted something else: an enormous white wolf racing towards them. Jaime had no idea how an animal could look joyous, but this wolf did.

The king hurriedly dismounted, before his horse took fright, Jaime assumed, and was almost bowled over by the biggest wolf Jaime had ever seen.

"His name is Ghost, Ser Jaime." Brienne sounded sardonic. "Have you met the king's direwolf?"

But then they were both distracted again, because riding towards them were what Jaime could only think of as Dothraki. He'd never seen them before, but faced with men with long braids, braided beards, and who were racing towards them, some standing on their horses, he could only come to that conclusion.

They jumped off their horses and fell to their knees, saying something in their language, but their leader switched quickly to the Common tongue.

"Great Khal Jon! We are your bloodriders!"

At a more sedate pace followed men in leather cuirasses and spiked helmets, carrying spears and shields. They slammed their spears in the ground as one, and were silent. But Jon Snow simply nodded.

"These are the Unsullied, Ser Jaime. I met their general, Grey Worm, at Queen Daenerys's camp."

They too descended to one knee, taking their helmets off. One of them spoke, keeping his eyes on the soil in front of him.

"This unworthy Unsullied has a message, King Jon. From Lady Sansa."

"Please rise, all of you," Jon said, and they got to their feet, with a certain reluctance. "No one is unworthy, who joins the true war."

The Unsullied who had first spoken seemed to be bursting with the task he had been given, and the king gave him a nod.

"Lady Sansa says that Lord Baelish has returned from the Vale, bringing with him more knights to help with the war. She says that some of the . . . Lords Declarant . . . have come with him."

The man stumbled over some words, but the message was clear enough. Jaime could feel the blood running cold in his veins. How had Littlefinger painted the events that had led to Ned Stark's death? He couldn't help remembering the Stark men he'd killed when he'd attacked Ned and his men, after Tyrion had been arrested by Lady Catelyn. But he hadn't betrayed Ned Stark, not like Baelish had. Why was he here at all?

"I wonder why Lord Baelish is back in Winterfell," the king mused, echoing his thoughts.

Brienne snorted. "He thinks you don't know – that he organised your death. He thinks you believe that the sergeant acted alone, and not on his orders."

The king looked like he agreed, and Jaime wondered what they were talking about. He'd ask Brienne later. "I think it is time."

"Time for what, your Grace?" Brienne looked as puzzled as Jaime felt. But the Dothraki and the Unsullied exchanged knowing looks, as Jon Snow looked up, searching the clear blue sky.

"Time to wake the dragon," the king answered, as the air filled with heavy wingbeats and a hoarse screech.

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 **Notes** :

So, I'm posting this a few hours before the Season 7 finale, hoping I don't get Jossed, or scooped or whatever they're calling it nowadays!

One of the things I wanted to make clear is exactly who suffers when jerks like the Ironborn sack a castle. Also, I got a little tired of Bronn yammering about his castle. One thing he doesn't seem to realise is that there's a social contract to being lord of a keep - "With great castle comes great responsibility." He's the lord of the area, so he's responsible for the smallfolk. Time for Bronn to grow up.


	10. Chapter 10

_Previously, on The Dragon in the North:_

Alys Karstark is at Winterfell, as are some Dothraki, Unsullied, Highgarden men, Petyr Baelish, and a few of the Lords Declarant. Meanwhile, Jon has persuaded Jaime Lannister to bring his troops North, and has liberated Torrhen's Square.

 _._

* * *

 _._

 _It was poison did the deed," the innkeep insisted. "The boy's face turned black as a plum."_

 _"May the Father judge him justly," murmured a septon._

 _"The dwarf's wife did the murder with him," swore an archer in Lord Rowan's livery. "Afterward, she vanished from the hall in a puff of brimstone, and a ghostly direwolf was seen prowling the Red Keep, blood dripping from his jaws."_

 _(A Storm of Swords, Chapter 62, Jaime VII.)_

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* * *

 **Chapter 10**

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The girl had not long been Alys Karstark when she glimpsed the towers of Winterfell in the distance.

She hadn't been Alys Karstark when she landed at Saltpans to deal with Walder Frey. As always, she resisted the temptation to spit when she thought of the man. Alys Karstark had been a proper lady, like Sansa, and ladies didn't spit. Or so the girl imagined. She hadn't known Alys Karstark at all, before taking her face.

The girl had called herself Mercy, after some consideration. She'd revealed her given name to the monster of Frey, before killing him, though she could easily have called herself Mercy – it had been a merciful death she'd given him, compared to how her mother and brother had died at his hands.

Working her way north, from the Twins, she had been Mercy again, travelling from tavern to tavern. Inns weren't just places to sleep (though she hardly slept at all), or eat (none of the food even compared to what Hot Pie could have produced) – they were sources of gossip. After such a long time spent away from the North, she was thirsty for news – but each morsel was stranger than the other. Often, she thought it had been easier when she was still Cat of the Canals, though she no longer remembered when she'd learned to sort out the truth from the tale, like a stew with a few precious morsels of meat in a sea of gristle.

The girl soon learned to discard the more insane rumours – that Sansa had married a flayed man, or that she warged into a whole pack of dogs at her master's bidding. But the ones regarding Jon were even stranger. It was madness enough that Jon was no longer at the Wall, no longer a man of the Night's Watch. But the stories grew in insanity the closer she rode to Winterfell – that Jon was now king of the Wildlings, that he'd let them through the Wall, that he'd forced Sansa into marriage, breaking the laws of both gods and men.

At a small, almost forgotten inn (which nevertheless almost painfully reminded her of the inn at the crossroads), one man-at-arms had been ranting loud enough to raise the dead. Though the latter was not an expression one dared use in the North nowadays, Mercy mused. She'd used it herself and had been the recipient of quite a few glares and muttered curse words, something else which puzzled her.

"He killed the Umbers and the Karstarks – proper Northern families, they were! Now they're gone, and him nothing but a bastard, born in the South! Who's to say he's even Ned Stark's son?"

Mercy had noticed the speaker had been careful to buy food and drink for his companions and himself, and his group had started a conversation which had gradually become louder until everyone at the inn could no longer pretend they weren't listening. An argument ensued, with everyone wanting to put in their bit; that of course Snow was Ned Stark's son, who else should he be? Why wasn't he at the Wall, then, someone else asked, and no-one had an answer for that.

"He let the wildlings through the Wall." The man's last statement sounded like the tolling of a great bell. "He became Lord Commander, and then betrayed the Night's Watch; he betrayed us all."

Mercy buried her face in her ale, thinking that this man, whoever he was, seemed practised in declaiming, almost as though he'd been taught what to say, and how to say it. Besides, she thought, how did he know Jon had become Lord Commander of the Night's Watch? Surely Jon was much too young for such an honour, such a duty.

Outside another inn, which was too filthy to stay in, she'd overheard two Valemen talking again about how Jon had forced Sansa to wed him. It was this that almost broke her resolution to go back to her home – she'd expected many things, but not this. Even so, these two men spoke for an audience of people who were simply pretending to saddle horses or load carts.

Underneath, or somewhat strangely, to the side of the gossip and rumours was something else, something no one talked about. In the middle of a long and involved story about some battle, a speaker assured his listeners that all the dead had been burned where they lay, and his audience communicated their approval with sidelong glances. At another inn, an old man asked for news of some village further north, closer to the Wall, only to receive noncommittal answers and shrugs. At the same time, Mercy could see the other patrons making warding signs against bad luck when they thought no-one was looking.

It was as though no-one wanted to speak too loudly about this, for fear of attracting the unwanted attention of . . . what? Surely, she thought, it was more dangerous to speak lies (they must be lies, she told herself, they _must_ ) about highborn folk, than to talk about whatever roamed the dark?

Wrapped in thought, riding through a snow flurry which threatened to become a blizzard, she might have missed the weak call for help, except she'd been expecting an ambush – the last inn had been full of hungry and angry-looking men, eyeing both her horse and her body with a similar kind of lust.

She rode off the road for a few paces, and her horse shied and almost threw her. When she managed to dismount and calm her beast, she looked around her to see what had frightened it. There, close to a withered tree and some rocks, was a dead horse, and, next to it, a dying girl.

"Help me . . . please . . . " The words were almost too faint to make out.

Mercy's heart sank when she contemplated the scene. This did not look good. She sat down next to the girl, searching herself for the right words. She wasn't in Braavos anymore: _Valar Morghulis_ would mean nothing to this Northern girl.

"What's your name?" Mercy asked, and wondered why she'd done so. What difference would the girl's name make to her fate?

The dying girl answered her in a whisper that was quickly blown away by the rising wind. "I am Alys, of House Karstark . . . I was on my way to the Wall, to seek aid from Lord Commander Jon Snow . . . "

She did not know, Mercy realised, that Jon Snow was no longer at the Wall, if the stories told in the inns were to be trusted. Mercy surveyed Alys with a dispassionate eye. Another thing – Alys Karstark did not know she was dying. Mercy had seen that look on other faces, at the House of Black and White, and there was no doubt in her mind. There was too much damage, on the inside, and Alys would not last long.

Mercy sat on her haunches, next to the dying girl. "I can make it quick, if you like."

But Alys was slipping away, and ended up not needing the gift of the Many-Faced God - at least, not from Mercy.

When Mercy rode North, the next morning, she was wearing Alys's face.

She ruminated over the few things Alys had muttered before she died – of being forced to marry her uncle, and running away from her home, intending to get Jon's help at the Wall. But the weather kept getting worse, and so she'd turned back, only for her horse to break a leg and fall, throwing her.

Now Mercy was wearing her face and her clothes, Karstark's shield on her saddle and Karstark's ring on her finger. For the first time in her experience of serving the Many-Faced God, she felt uncomfortable. When she had become Walder Frey's servant, she'd watched the girl beforehand, taking care to learn her mannerisms and expressions.

Then, just as she'd been asking herself if she was really prepared to kill an innocent, just to take her face, she'd come across the servant girl, bleeding to death in the stable yard. One of Walder's grandsons had put a babe in her belly, and refused to take responsibility for it – she'd gone to a so-called wise woman for help, but instead ended up dying painfully. Mercy had given her just that, in a dose of sweetsleep. There were times when she wondered whether the Many-Faced God was really watching out for her.

Even better (if one could call this 'better'), now that she'd needed it, another face had presented itself, and she could come to Winterfell without anyone the wiser. It had been simple enough to gain admittance into the great hall with Karstark's sword and shield, and his ring.

That was when her plan started to go awry, because Jon was not there. On the one hand, it was perhaps to her benefit that Jon was away – she was not sure how much he remembered of Alys's long ago visit to Winterfell. But she needed to know whether the tales were true, whether Jon had turned into a monstrous traitor to all her father had believed in. Yes, _her_ father. She was in Winterfell now, her home, and she longed, more than anything, to reveal herself as Arya Stark, daughter of Catelyn and Eddard Stark, blood of the wolf.

Arya could picture Jaqen, or the man who looked like Jaqen but said that he wasn't, shaking his head in disappointment. "A girl is not ready to serve the Many-Faced God," he would have said, and he would have been right. Still, she persevered.

She allowed a stranger, _a wildling,_ to show her the tombs which she'd known since she was a babe in swaddling clothes. She allowed Sansa to put her in a gown and treat her like some simpering miss who thought only of the new ribbons for her hair. But she balked at helping with the sewing – she would not take that road again. Her lady mother was dead – gone was the only woman who could have made her sit at her needle, not her Needle, again. Though she thought that she'd made a mistake when she offered to help in the kitchens; maybe she'd been lucky, and Sansa simply thought that the Karstarks were rough and savage folk, even the women.

Arya groaned. Why was she still hiding? She was home now, and her sister was the Lady of Winterfell. She was clearly not married to Jon, and through careful questioning, or rather, pretending to be a rather simple young girl, and listening, had found the truth of all that had happened in the North.

Yes, Jon had let the wildings through the Wall, but only because of the Long Night and the Night King. Truth be told, that was the part Arya found it hardest to believe, though it would have explained so much about the underlying terror she'd felt everywhere in the North. It rose like a mist from the fens and the swamps, it surrounded people still in fields when dusk approached, it even penetrated the warmth and comfort of the inns, whenever talk started of travelling after sunset.

Still, she found it easier to believe that the Umbers and the Karstarks had broken faith with the North – the Boltons went without saying – as she'd been there the last time oaths had been broken. Even though no-one liked to talk about it, she'd eventually gleaned that Sansa _had_ been married to a Snow: _Ramsay_ Snow, who took on the Bolton name.

Arya tried to sneak looks at Sansa without getting caught, but wasn't sure how successful her attempts were, because Sansa had changed, and it wasn't all about the years they hadn't seen each other. Sansa had _changed_. She was colder, and much more practical – there were times when she overheard her talking about food and provisions, and Arya wondered whether this truly was her sister anymore.

Still, there was something hidden happening at Winterfell, she was sure of it. Sansa and the Northern lords, even the leader of the wildlings – they were hiding something. They would disappear together, in a way that would have fooled anyone, but Arya had been trained in the House of Black and White. She had been sent out into Braavos, the ageless city built on intrigue, and she'd always been told to find out three new things. So, she often would amuse herself in finding out three new things about Winterfell, though at first she was saddened – so much was new, and unlike what she remembered.

The buildings, the walls, the servants, nothing was the same. At times, she looked down on the courtyard, as her mother and father had, and could recognise no-one there. Except her sister, and she was barely recognizable.

Days passed without much change, though the feeling of tension, of expectation, never fully went away, and she caught herself grinding her teeth, or reaching for a sword which wasn't there. Still, a day came when she was ushered to the crypts and back in a hurry, only for her companions to vanish in the bowels of Winterfell on their return.

Then, to make matters worse, her sister and most of the lords of the North had left, to go riding, they said, but Arya found that even harder to believe than usual. She'd taken the opportunity to sneak right back into the crypts, because there'd been something which had been bothering her ever since she'd been back there. In the years since her last visit, there had been a new collapse in one of the older passages, and she'd wanted to explore what it mean, only to find out it meant nothing at all; only age.

Walking back out, she stopped, as usual, in front of her father's statue and stared at it, trying to find any resemblance to the man she had known all her life in this stone effigy. Close by there was the statue of her aunt Lyanna, and she wondered whether this one was any closer to reality, when she stumbled over some loose rubble in front of it. Crouching down, and holding the candle closer, she had a good look at Aunt Lyanna's tomb. It was hard to see, at first, but it seemed like there was a loose stone, and someone had been trying to loosen it even more. Or had they succeeded? She rocked the stone slightly, and it resisted at first, but then slid out in a puff of dust. She screwed up her nose and winced, in preparation for the stench that she was sure would emerge, but there was nothing but an old, mouldy smell. It had been over twenty years ago, after all.

As she prepared to move away, something inside the tomb caught the light of her candle. What was in there? Whatever it was, would not pass through the small hole left by the loose stone. She blew inside the tomb, trying to move the dust, and a sound followed, a sound she had heard before, though much stronger and more melodic. There was a _harp_ in aunt Lyanna's tomb? But why? Also, who had been digging into an old tomb, and how had they known there was something to find in it? Just as she was about to loosen more stone from the tomb, she noticed that her candle was guttering, almost out. Too much time had passed, and she needed to get back to the keep before she was missed. She carefully placed the loose stone back in place, and decided she would come back another time – whether to uncover more of this mystery or hide it again with some mortar, she wasn't sure.

When she snuck back out again, Arya realised that she could have made as much noise as she liked – it would have been masked by the noise accompanying the return of some Lords of the Vale and their men. However, even though she tried to melt away into a hidden doorway, a happy greeting showed that she'd been seen, and she prepared herself once more to play the game of faces.

"Ah, Lady Karstark! You must meet Lady Waynwood, Lord Hunter, and Ser Lyn Corbray!" Petyr Baelish looked no different than the last time she'd seen him, with Tywin Lannister, at Harrenhal. The question remained: how did he know her, or, her face? Had they met? Was she expected to know him?

She decided that no-one would expect a proper young lady to be very garrulous with her elders, and curtseyed, with a shy smile.

"I am Lord Petyr Baelish, Lord Protector of the Vale!" he exclaimed, and she curtseyed again, swallowing a sigh of relief.

She also could not miss the glare the other lords gave him at that – or rather, one of the lords and the lady, while the other stared at her, sullen.

"I have brought with me the Lords Declarant," Littlefinger continued, "who will take up cases such as yours, my poor Lady Karstark." He turned aside, still holding onto her hand. "You see, King Jon Snow has given her lands to one of his wildling vassals – I'm sure he needs to pacify his allies, but must ancient Houses be despoiled for his ambitions?"

"Now, now," Lady Waynwood interjected, "you know very well that we have no authority in the North. We are simply here to make sure that young Lord Arryn's interests are not neglected."

Arya looked up through her eyelashes, unable to suppress a feeling of contempt for this highborn woman she'd never met before. She treated Baelish like a naughty grandson, while he'd just announced, for all in the courtyard to hear, that their new king favoured wildlings and would unfairly dispossess who he pleased. Arya herself had no illusions about the man. She hadn't forgotten the conversation she'd overheard between him and Tywin Lannister: the next thing she knew, her whole family had been snuffed out, like a candle.

But that wasn't enough for that insane day. No sooner had Littlefinger and his companions started towards the keep, than the guards had announced that Lady Stark and her companions were returning, but not alone. The Lady Waynwood had asked, imperiously, who was with her, and received a partly cryptic reply.

"Highgarden men, m'lady! And . . . savages!"

Arya barely suppressed a growl. Was Baelish bribing every servant and man at arms in the keep, to announce dangerous news as soon as they heard it? What good would it do to make the smallfolk panic?

When she heard Sansa's voice she felt somewhat reassured, though she still had questions.

 _"The Great Queen Daenerys blesses us with many gifts."_

Who was the 'Great Queen Daenerys', Arya asked herself. And why was she blessing them with _any_ gifts? She snuck a look around her – Lord Baelish strode eagerly to the gate, opening his arms in welcome. She ignored that, and any reaction Sansa might have shown, while looking at the Lords Declarant. They did not look happy, unlike Ser Davos, who, face wreathed in smiles, started directing the food carts and the livestock to various stores and pens. Arya understood why – they had needed food desperately if they were going to feed people who took refuge in Winterfell once winter finally hit. She was also starting to realise that when the Starks of old had said Winter is coming, they were rarely talking about the weather.

Sansa gave the reins of her horse to a stable boy and greeted Lord Baelish. Arya could tell that she wasn't happy – she smiled, but there was no happiness in her eyes. Then, everyone's attention was caught by the strangest people ever to ride through the gates of Winterfell. There were tall men, clad in leather, with long braided hair, and clean-shaven men with spears and shields, and helmets. Of course, there were men wearing the green and gold of Highgarden, but that was nothing new.

They all dismounted, but acted very differently. The clean-shaven men seemed happy enough to hand their horses off to another stable boy, but the men with long braided hair and beards, who almost seemed to be one and the same with their horses, were not. There was a silent struggle between a tall warrior and a stable boy, that might have resulted in a tug of war over the reins, until Sansa went to intercede.

Arya thought that she was the only one who heard the little sigh that escaped her sister's lips, and she had to bite her own to suppress her smile. This Daenerys, whoever she was, clearly thought she'd done them a favour, but these foreigners might cause more harm than help. Why were they here? Arya had finally remembered their names – the horsemen were called Dothraki, while the others might be the Unsullied. She had read a few lines about the latter, before Maester Luwin had snatched the book away from her, slamming it shut. The sudden memory of that kind face brought stinging tears to her eyes, and she blinked them back, as fast as she could, and decided to focus on what was happening in front of her.

Tormund, the leader of the wildlings, had decided to take over with the fierce strangers, and Sansa was clearly relieved. After conferring with the one who seemed to lead the Dothraki as well as the Unsullied, the wildling turned to her sister.

"Sansa Stark, the Dothraki do not wish to live inside stone houses. They will camp with the Free Folk, outside the walls. The Unsullied would rather stay within the keep."

Arya knew her sister – she was barely restraining herself from protesting. In the end, she gave in.

"I wish for the Dothraki, the Unsullied and the Tyrell men to accompany us – we need to meet in the Great Hall. There are many matters to discuss."

Tormund nodded, and turned away, not before muttering something under his breath, which sounded like 'you Southerners, all you do is talk.' Arya was indignant for a moment – they weren't Southerners – until she realised that to a wildling, anyone south of the Wall was a Southerner.

"Lady Karstark, I would like you to accompany us." Arya was still looking at the crowd of men and horses which was filling the courtyard of Winterfell, wondering what her father would have made of these strange folk from Essos, and it took her two or three heartbeats to remember that Sansa was talking to her.

She tried to distract her with one or two curtseys, but was sure that her sister was looking at her suspiciously all the while. "Yes, Lady Stark, of course!"

Gods, but Sansa must think she was a simpleton. Better that than an imposter, she thought. But still. Why was she continuing with this mummers' farce? She'd been in Winterfell for some weeks now, and none of what she had been told was true. Or rather, it was the truth, but had been twisted to serve someone's sinister purpose. Could Baelish be the one behind all the talk? She was sure that she'd seen the falcon of the Vale on the saddlebags of some of the men spreading the wildest rumours about Jon – and she'd just witnessed Littlefinger sowing discord with the Lords Declarant.

Still, Jon was not here. All of her doubts and fears, ridiculous as they were, could have been allayed by a few heartbeats' conversation with her brother. But he was not here. She had not seen or spoken to her sister in years – this woman was almost a stranger to her. And now her home was filled with all manner of strange foreigners. A voice in her mind mocked her, a voice that sometimes sounded like Jaqen H'ghar, sometimes like the Waif, and which added: so was she. She had chosen to come back to her childhood home in the guise of another. Hypocrite, the voice accused, and this time, it sounded like her own.

By then, they had reached the Great Hall, which was full to bursting with lords and men of the North, Dothraki and Unsullied, Lords of the Vale, and Petyr Baelish. Sansa sat at the lord's table, with Ghost in front of it, at her feet, huge head resting on his paws. His was only an illusion of rest, though, as his eyes stared, unblinking, at whoever spoke.

Sansa was flanked by Ser Davos, as Castellan, who had to bang on the table with a cup to get the hubbub to stop.

Arya stood as far to the side as she could, careful not to be in anyone's line of sight. Not that anyone was paying any attention to _her_. Almost everyone was gawking at the strange looking warriors, who were themselves staring back. One of the tall warriors with the braided hair and beard glanced at her, where she stood hidden in the shadows, and looked away. Then his head swivelled towards her again, and he lowered his head to talk to the member of the Unsullied, standing next to him. The latter also lifted his head to stare at her, and she could feel herself start to sweat. Why were they staring at her? Could they _see_ her? Just as she was about to bolt from the hall, a welcome interruption broke their focus.

"Lady Sansa, what is the meaning of this?" Petyr Baelish sounded outraged, but who knew what he really felt.

The interesting thing, Arya thought, was that none of the other lords of the North looked shocked or outraged in any way. They'd ridden out calmly, and had ridden back with warriors who had never been seen before in the seven kingdoms . . . because they'd known, Arya realised.

"The meaning of what, my lord?" Sansa asked, and you didn't have to be her sister to hear the suppressed anger simmering under her words, Arya thought. She always had a temper to match her hair, just like mother. Arya blinked hard, to stop the tears.

"I beg your pardon for my rash words, my lady," Baelish added, and Sansa leaned back, seemingly mollified. But Arya wasn't convinced. Was Sansa playing the game of lies?

"As you all know, Winter is here," Sansa began, and Arya noticed how the Northern lords settled in their seats, as if to listen to a tale. Still, some of them, like Cerwyn, and young Lady Mormont, were tensely fingering their swords.

"As the King has told us, the real war has begun – the war between the living and the dead. The Night King and his army are on the march, and we need to prepare to fight. We also need provisions for the Long Night – what will it avail us if we defeat the White Walkers, but then die of starvation?" Sansa's voice had a soothing, almost hypnotic effect, and once again, Arya was unwillingly impressed by her sister.

"For this reason, King Jon has been travelling far and wide, making alliances with whoever will listen. On one of his journeys, he encountered Queen Daenerys Targaryen, daughter of King Aerys, who has returned to the seven kingdoms to claim the Iron Throne."

At this, the hubbub started again – arguing voices, some angry, most worried. Arya tried to sneak a look at the tall Dothraki, and once again, realised that he was staring right back at her, even as the Unsullied was muttering in his ear, translating what Sansa had said, she assumed.

Ser Davos banged on the table with a cup again.

"The Queen and King Jon have reached an agreement: The North will not be subject to her rule. We will be allies, and once she has regained her throne, she will aid us in fighting the Night King. To that end, she has given us some of her warriors, and food and provisions from Highgarden."

"How do we know these warriors are not simply here to kill the king, once he arrives? This could all be a trap!" Petyr Baelish did not even wait for Sansa to finish speaking, Arya noticed. That was how much respect he had for her sister. Arya realised she was grinding her teeth, and forced herself to stop. She wished she could just shut him up, somehow.

The tall Dothraki and his Unsullied translator strode forward, and every man's hand instantly went to his sword. Even Lady Mormont stood, and Arya reached within the recesses of her clothing for Needle, which she always made sure she had to hand.

The Unsullied opened his mouth to speak, but the Dothraki waved him down. He stared at the Northern lords in turn, glared at Baelish, and finally turned to Sansa.

"We . . . not fight you!" The man had an accent to be sure, but she could understand what he said. "We swear . . . many times!" The Unsullied at his side nodded, and hissed something at the Dothraki, who pointed at Sansa, and yelled "Blood of my blood!"

At this, all the Dothraki started shouting one word in their language, and knelt, while the Unsullied did the same. The few Tyrell men who had accompanied the foreigners also bowed deeply, and Arya could see that the Northern lords and all their men finally looked relieved. Even the Lords Declarant seemed impressed at the display. The only one who was unhappy was Lord Baelish, who seemed to be trying to hide his frustration. Arya wondered what the word they had been shouting meant, though. It had sounded like _Halessi,_ whatever that meant.

The next few weeks passed without incident. Though that wasn't entirely true, Arya thought – Jaqen would have smacked her across the knuckles if she'd ever tried such a bald-faced lie on him – there was no incident in general, but a few in particular, as pertained to her. Everywhere she went in the keep, she'd grown a shadow – the tall Dothraki. She would look up, and there he was. He was not very good at stealth, as the Dothraki tended to announce themselves in battle, but he was good at stalking _her_.

Finally, she bumped into him in a corridor where she thought she'd been alone, and she'd been trying to follow Petyr Baelish without being seen, and she'd had enough.

"What do you want?" she snapped, but he grinned at her, unfazed.

"I am Vrelo," he answered. "It mean . . . _fast_ ," he continued. Against her will, she felt a tendril of interest grow in her mind. Their names had meanings? She had already found out how the Unsullied were named, and knew that the one who did all the translating for the Dothraki was called Black Dog, but this was something else. Still, she couldn't afford to show weakness, here, and had to keep wearing lady Alys's face if she was to find out what was really happening in the castle.

"Yes, what of it?" she answered, trying to seem as peevish as possible. "And I am Alys, of House Karstark."

"No," he said. "You lie. You have two face." He gestured at her, bringing up two fingers. "Why?"

Arya's blood froze in her veins. How could this be? How could he _see_ her? She backed away from the man, turned and ran. She had some idea of asking Sansa for help, but what could she say? Never mind, she thought. She'd come up with something. When she dashed into the great hall, Sansa was giving another of her talks. Lord Baelish was not there, and she cursed Vrelo for having thrown her off the scent. The other Lords Declarant were there, though, and while Lady Waynwood and Lord Hunter hadn't contributed much, so far, Lyn Corbray was determined to be as disruptive as possible, it seemed. Had Baelish bribed him too?

"King Jon has written that he means to take Torrhen's Square from the Ironborn, and once that is done, he will march to Winterfell with his new ally." Sansa was reading from a scroll, but Arya wondered how much she was leaving out. She wasn't the only one.

"What new ally, my lady? How does he mean to retake the Square?"

While Arya noted that a few men in the hall nodded, and added their 'ayes' to the conversation, all the Northern lords looked to the side, or down, seeming to find great wisdom in the woven rushes which covered the floor. Even the wildlings exchanged knowing looks, which incensed Arya. The Unsullied looked impassive, which was nothing new, and the Dothraki . . . well. Vrelo caught her eye and managed to smirk at her, somehow without changing expression. Arya could not supress a sour thought: that was a trick not even the Faceless Men had learned, or if they had, they hadn't taught it to her.

Sansa didn't change expression, either. "King Jon does not want to risk his messages being intercepted, by Houses that wish us harm. He will not speak openly, not until he is back here, in the safety of his keep."

Arya's training enabled her to see what the others could not – an exchange of looks between the Northern lords, which surely caused what happened next.

"Might be he has some more of these Dothraki buggers with him – they be good fighters, I reckon."

A chorus of ayes followed, and, try as she might, Arya could not see who had spoken. Neither could Petyr Baelish, she could tell. Which seemed to infuriate him. But still, he remained silent.

"Does King Jon not trust the Knights of the Vale to aid him, then?" This time, it was clear who had spoken, a Valeman who she'd seen with Baelish.

A man called out in protest, another in anger, and this meeting, like so many, risked devolving into yelling and squabbling. Lyn Corbray stalked around the Great Hall, his hand on his sword, and both the Dothraki and the Unsullied clearly wanted to do something, but seemed to have been given strict orders not to. Whoever had done that was truly wise, Arya reckoned. No-one there would accept foreign interference in their affairs, especially not the proud and prickly Knights of the Vale.

She was not sure of what would have happened next, but when she looked back at the great table, a servant had somehow made his way past the arguing groups of men and was whispering in Sansa's ear. The blinding smile which broke out on her face told Arya what had happened, even before Ser Davos banged on the table once more, shouting for silence.

"The scouts have spotted King Jon and his army – they are close by, my lords!"

Forgotten was the anger of the past few moments – the entire hall erupted in cheers, a mixture of "King Jon" and "the King in the North", with some Dothraki trills thrown in. While this was going on, Arya noticed that Ser Davos gathered the Dothraki and the Unsullied to him, and spoke urgently for a few moments, after which they just seemed to melt away. She was sure that Littlefinger noticed, though. He always noticed.

An hour or so later, it seemed like the entire castle stood on the battlements, outside the gate, all straining for a glimpse of the King and his new army. She was standing in a spot which had a good view, but which had more than one exit point. As it was, she noticed something strange in the Tyrell encampment, below. The sergeant, who she'd become familiar with in the keep, was riding up and down, shouting something at his men. There were even some Dothraki there, and Arya started to worry.

That was nothing, though, compared to what she felt when Jon and his army came into sight. She had noticed some Dothraki and Unsullied racing towards the approaching men, preceded by a joyous Ghost, silent as always. They came closer, and closer still, until she could make out their banners, which were direwolves of Winterfell, with the colours reversed.

But the soldiers were not wearing Stark armour, or Vale plate. They were not in blue and brown, or silver and grey, not even the green and gold of Highgarden. No, their cloaks were red, red, red, everywhere she looked. Closer still, they rode, accompanied by the screaming Dothraki and the silent Unsullied, until she could identify individual riders.

There was Jon, who looked the same, but at the same time, much changed. There was a ferret-like man, and a tall woman, the same one, if Arya was not mistaken, who had defeated the Hound. The other man . . . Arya could deny the evidence of her eyes no longer. Those soldiers were wearing Lannister armour. The rider was wearing full plate covered in lions, his blond hair glinting in the weak sunlight, his golden hand catching solitary beams and sending them to dazzle her – that man was Jaime Lannister.

Even as her blood turned to ice water in her veins, she noticed the Northmen all around her, reassuring the few people in the keep who hadn't known about this. As she melted away into a passage down to the great hall, she saw that Baelish and the other lords of the Vale had somehow been separated from each other and their men.

In the great hall, she not only kept herself hidden, she no longer was Alys Karstark. She used the face of the servant girl from the Twins, but still kept to the shadows, no longer trusting in anything or anyone. She wanted more proof before she reached the conclusion that Jon had gone mad, allying with the family that had killed Father, that had destroyed them all.

Once more, they were in the great hall, but this time, there was dead silence. Jon stood, Sansa at his side, a group of Dothraki and Unsullied to one side, but clearly prepared to spring into action if and when it was necessary.

Jaime Lannister and some of his soldiers stood in front of Jon and Sansa – there was no expression on Lannister's face, though his men looked terrified. They clearly thought they were going to die here.

"Why are you here, Lord Lannister?" It wasn't fair, Arya thought, knowing how childish it sounded, even in her head. Jon sounded exactly the same! He had a few more scars, and now he held himself like someone who could win a fight, but his voice hadn't changed, at all.

Lannister lifted his head, and then, to a few shocked gasps, started unbuckling his sword-belt. He handed his sword to one of his soldiers, and then, with some effort, sank to his knees, took the sword, and laid it at Jon's feet.

"I am here to confess my crimes against the Stark family and the North. I led an attack on the Starks in King's Landing, and I took up arms against the Northern armies in the war of Five Kings. I am here to pledge my loyalty to House Stark, and to Jon Snow, the King in the North."

There were more gasps, and the muttering grew louder, until Jon lifted a hand for silence.

"What restitution do you offer for your crimes?"

"I bring with me the Lannister army, to join in the fight against the Night King and his armies." Here, he seemed to pause, looking around him, catching the eye of the tall warrior woman . . . what had been her name?

"I have seen the armies of the dead, and I have seen those who lead them. It is a war we must win."

"How do we know, Lord Lannister, that this is not a trick – how do we know that we will not be betrayed, once more?" Jon sounded tired, but determined. "Lord Manderley, here – he sent his son to a wedding, the boy hung his sword on their wall to feast with friends, and he was butchered. Gregor Clegane reduced the Riverlands to ash and ruin, all with your father's blessing. Your sister, now, has destroyed the temple of your faith, and the entire court at King's Landing, to escape her own punishment."

This last started the muttering again, but Arya only felt a fierce joy. So the Sept of Baelor was gone? Good.

Jaime cleared his throat. "I will bind myself in marriage with one of your allies – Lady Brienne of Tarth." Everyone turned to look at the tall woman, who flushed under their intense scrutiny. She didn't change expression, though, and Lannister wasn't finished. "Don't they say marriages make the best treaties?"

Even on such a solemn occasion, Lannister could not resist the hidden jape, the light tone – Arya loathed him, and Jon had brought him into their home.

Jon looked around him, a steely look in his eye. "You chose me as your king – I never asked for it. But I mean to do it right. That means I will ally with everyone and anyone who will help us fight the dead. There were those at Castle Black who refused to understand this, and they cut me down. But I did not die, and they are the ones hanging from cross-beams now. I will gather anyone, whether they be free folk, Targaryens, foreigners from across the sea, and yes, even Lannisters!"

He looked down at the man kneeling at his feet. Arya saw that he seemed to sigh, but then his voice boomed across the Great Hall.

"Jaime Lannister, I, King Jon, the King in the North, ruler of the Andals and the First Men from the Wall to the Neck, do grant you a full pardon for your crimes. Rise, Lord Lannister."

Arya could feel the bile rising, threatening to fill her mouth. She swallowed it with difficulty, and started to melt away into the shadows, but this farce was not over, yet. Jon looked all around him, making sure all heard what he had to say.

"Here and now, we are alive. The only war that matters, is the one with the dead. We must put aside our petty differences, our blood feuds, our warring families and fight, together. Will you stand beside me, Jaime Lannister, now and always?"

The Lannister looked almost dazzled – the first time she'd seen him look like that – but Arya had no doubt that it was another of his tricks. Still, it was fooling everyone.

"Now, and always," Lannister repeated, in a clear, ringing voice. He seemed to gather an echo, because the words rushed around the room, until everyone was shouting, "NOW AND ALWAYS!", with the Dothraki joining in, and the Unsullied banging their spears on the ground.

Arya caught a glimpse of the joy on Jon and Sansa's faces but she walled herself off from it. This was not real. None of it was real. The mummers' farce ended now, and she would end it.

She had followed Sansa enough times through the castle to have found the little room where she and some others discussed secrets. So she knew how to get there quickly, and the lock was nothing for Cat of the Canals, who could have picked it in her sleep. There was a nice big wall, just right for her needs. She made a deliberate cut on her thigh, and sneered slightly when she remembered the stories in song of warrior knights cutting the palms of their hands to make blood oaths. Why would you cut your hand? What were you going to hold a sword or a dagger in? But she was making no oath – the blood was her ink, and she had enough to write the word clearly, so that it would be seen by whoever entered the room, as soon as they did.

She was Alys Karstark again as she faded into the shadows, Needle at the ready, and did not have to wait long before the door opened, and Jon entered. He saw the word almost immediately, and she had time to feel a pinprick of shame as she saw him stagger, as if smashed in the face with a fist. Still, it wasn't a lie. That was what he was.

TRAITOR.

It was almost too easy to emerge from a corner behind him, and slide Needle across his neck. "Yes, that's right," she hissed. "You've betrayed us all!"

But Jon wasn't listening to her. He was trying to crane his neck to look at her sword, and then, at her, from the corner of his eye. His forehead crinkled, and the look in his eyes went from shock and fear, to hurt. He didn't try to explain, or call for the guards, anything like that. He just had one word.

"Arya?"

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Notes:

So, yeah. It's been a while. As I've mentioned elsewhere, I've become sick with something that can be treated, not cured. Turns out, the treatment sucks even after you've stopped taking it. Hooray!  
It's been a while since I even could think about this story, let alone write, but inspiration came back, and here it is.

I used the quote from _A Storm of Swords_ to show how weird rumours can spread in a place in which news is disseminated by whoever wants to do it, and it's difficult to distinguish truth from lies.

The word the Dothraki were saying is of course "Khaleesi", but that's not how it's pronounced.

What could be in Lyanna's tomb? Well, Rhaegar was famous (among other things), for his skills at the harp!


	11. Chapter 11

Thanks so much for your response, everyone!

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 _As his men died around him, Littlefinger slid Ned's dagger from its sheath and shoved it up under his chin. His smile was apologetic. "I did warn you not to trust me, you know."_

 _(A Game of Thrones, Chapter 49, Eddard XIV)_

* * *

 **Chapter 11**

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TRAITOR.

The word stopped him in his tracks. It had been written in blood, this time, not scratched into a piece of wood, but still, it took him back to a frigid night at Castle Black, and angry voices whispering, "for the Watch."

Though Ser Alliser had sounded almost gentle, Jon remembered, as he'd stabbed him in the belly, the first blow.

Jon managed, with an effort, to wrench himself back to the present, but it was already too late. From nowhere, a knife was put to his neck. He barely heard the words spoken in fury, and he did not know this girl, but there was something strangely familiar about her knife. It wasn't actually a knife. It was a long thin sword, in shape almost . . . almost like a . . . but the girl, her face wasn't familiar. He twisted his head around with an effort, catching a glimpse of a face twisted in fury, spitting vitriol at him, but almost as if another set of features was fighting to emerge from underneath.

Jon should be pleading for understanding, he knew (even if something, deep inside, was already exploding in a hot fury at the thought of surrender), but all he could do was mumble the first name that came to mind.

"Arya?" He felt the body behind him stiffen and was afraid that she would just cut his throat and be done with it.

Luckily, or not, he supposed, Sansa chose that moment to burst through the door. It took her a few seconds to realise what she'd interrupted. "Jon, did you see Littlefinger's face when Jaime Lannister came in? I have no love for the man, of course, not for any Lannister, really, but – Lady Alys, what are you _doing?"_

Her words rose to a shriek at the end, and the girl let him go, pushed him aside, and turned her sword towards the new threat, as she must have seen it. Jon's shock turned to horror, as he saw Needle (it had to be Needle, he'd given her that thrice damned sword!) point towards his . . . his wife.

As the girl stared at them, she gripped her chin and seemed to pull off her face, only to reveal another face underneath. Sansa's mouth fell open.

"Arya!"

"Is that all anyone is going to say to me today?" Arya asked, and Jon had to suppress a smile, which was a strange addition to his shock and confusion. His first thought was that she hadn't changed. Except, of course she had. He opened his mouth to answer, but Sansa was faster.

"Perchance you can explain why you were trying to kill Jon." Her tone was acerbic, Sansa at her best. He saw her face change as she spotted the writing on the wall. "Oh, _Arya."_

Arya had the grace to look shame-faced. Then she glared at him. "Well, he is! All this way, coming here, I kept hearing the most outrageous stories about you both, and I told myself they couldn't be true! Then I came home, but it's not my home anymore!" Jon found himself blinking as the tears stung his eyes. She sounded so much like a hurt child.

"I told myself to wait until you came back, that you'd explain everything, and then you bring a Lannister. To our _home."_

"What do _you_ know of Lannisters, Arya?" Sansa was in a rage, he could tell. Her voice wasn't loud, just icy. "You didn't have to live with them, surrounded by them, being beaten, married off . . . you didn't have to stay there . . . because you left me!"

She had been approaching Arya until they were nose to nose, almost, and he saw that Arya was just as angry as Sansa. On the periphery of his hearing there was a scratch at the door, and a whine, but he ignored it. Not now, Ghost, he thought. It was costing him enough to keep his thoughts pleasant and calm, because if Viserion decided he needed to intervene, there might be trouble. More trouble, he amended, as he watched the sisters spar.

"I was a child!"

"So was I!"

"Well, you're not anymore," Arya continued, her tone sharp. "And you seem to have reconciled with the Lannisters, because you've given the Kingslayer a new home!"

"Enough!" Jon spoke, startling himself as well as Sansa and Arya, and now both women were glaring at _him._ He could see so much of their mother in them, it was terrifying. "We need the Lannister armies, Arya, and if you've been here for a few weeks, you should know why!"

Arya frowned. "You mean, all that about the Others returning . . . that's all true? How can it be? It was just stories, like Old Nan used to tell us." She looked at Sansa, her brows meeting. "I travelled here from Saltpans, and I never saw anything like that." But she was hiding something, Jon could tell. She would tell them when she was ready.

"You should pray to your god of many faces that you never do," he answered, relishing the look of shock on Arya's face.

"What are you talking about . . . Arya? What does he mean?"

Arya looked to the side, unwilling to speak, he thought. But no-one could resist Sansa. "I went to Braavos, eventually. I . . . there's a temple . . . they're called the Faceless Men, and I-"

Sansa had gasped, a hand covering her mouth. "Those are assassins!" At their querying looks, she continued. "I heard Littlefinger talking about them once. Arya, are you . . . ?"

Arya looked down at her feet, and for a moment Jon was reminded of Bran. "I never really completed my training," she muttered. "I just wanted to come home."

But Jon remembered what Lady Catelyn had said – not to him, just in earshot – that whenever Bran lied, he always looked at his feet.

"Oh, Arya," Sansa said, opening her arms. "You are home!"

Arya was happy enough to be embraced by her sister, and for a few heartbeats, Jon thought things were going well, for a change.

"If only you both knew about the insane rumours that I heard, coming here. They were saying that you and Jon were married!"

Years ago, Tormund had tried to explain what it was like to be hypnotized by an approaching avalanche, a wave of ice and snow, to see it bearing down on you, but be unable to move. Finally, Jon understood, as he felt himself opening his mouth, and uttering what he was sure would be his last words. "But we are!"

The next few minutes were full of agitated words, anger and misunderstanding, but a loud noise in the sky above the keep silenced the angry voices in the room. The furious and prolonged screech showed that Viserion was no longer being fooled by Jon's attempt at sending him calm thoughts, and was coming down to settle the situation, _his_ way.

"What in the seven hells was that?" Arya asked, eyes wide.

"That's Jon's dragon; I was trying to tell you," Sansa answered.

He could hear the superior tone and would have shot her an annoyed look, except he was busy convincing Viserion that he, Jon, was in no immediate danger, and that he should go back to his cave. Jon's head was full of what in a man or a child would have been annoyed grumbling: Viserion was tired of hiding. Jon couldn't blame him.

Arya's face shone with admiration. Jon raised an eyebrow. Was that all it took, a dragon? He hoped the rest of the North would be as easily convinced.

A frantic knocking at the door stopped anything else he planned on saying, and when he opened it, a flustered Lady Brienne rushed into the room.

"Your Grace, my lady, Lord Baelish is- Lady Arya?" The sight stunned her for a few seconds.

"We'll explain later, Lady Brienne. What about Littlefinger?"

"He's trying to turn all the Northern lords and the Lords Declarant against you and Lady Sansa – seeing as most of the Lords already know, it isn't working, but there are many Knights of the Vale who don't know, and Lord Royce isn't succeeding in keeping them calm."

"What exactly is he saying, Lady Brienne?" Sansa seemed to realise that Brienne was embarrassed by the whole business.

"He's accusing King Jon of having married his sister, that he's just like Ser Jaime . . . at the core." Brienne's face was flame red, and Jon felt sorry for her.

"I hope Ser Jaime is keeping out of it," Jon mused.

"I instructed Karsi and the spearwives not to let him challenge anyone to a duel," she answered, "because of what Ser Lyn keeps calling me." She added the last almost as an aside, and Jon could feel his hackles rising. Ghost, who had raced in with Brienne, started growling.

"What exactly is Ser Lyn calling you, my lady?" Jon asked, and noticed that Arya was looking at him admiringly; for his tone? Perhaps, the implicit threat in his words was something she prized, nowadays.

"Soon we will have a conversation," he said meaningfully, to Arya, and she rolled her eyes. Then she seemed to remember something.

"I need to get something – which I found . . . somewhere!" Arya rushed off, and he exchanged looks with Sansa. Had Arya accepted the garbled version of his parentage too easily? He couldn't say, and neither could he understand anything about this new Arya. Though that was a lie, really – she was just as mercurial as she'd always been, and he mentioned this to Sansa on their way to the great hall.

When they entered, there was a chaos which he hadn't expected, but Sansa just sighed. "That's what they're like when you're not there, Jon."

Jon was just about to answer that he was sure his presence wasn't going to make a huge difference, when Littlefinger spotted him, as well as Ser Davos. Baelish said something to the Lords Declarant, just as Ser Davos banged on the great table for quiet.

Strangely enough, it wasn't Baelish who spoke first, though. It was Lady Waynwood, who glared at him, a look of disgust on her face.

"What do you say to these accusations, your Grace?" She managed to fill the last two words with utter contempt.

"What accusations are those, my lady?" Jon played for time, even as he counted his allies in the hall; Tormund, the Dothraki, the Unsullied. The spearwives were controlling Jaime Lannister, which was good. No-one had drawn steel yet, which was better, though a Valeman who he imagined was Ser Lyn Corbray kept walking up and down, his hand on his sword. If there was one man who would be deliberately stupid, that was the one – he supposed that Littlefinger had paid him enough.

"That you have committed _incest_ with your sister, the Lady of Winterfell," she answered, clearly outraged.

"I have done no such thing, my lady," he countered, keeping his tone untroubled. He answered Lord Petyr's small smile with one of his own, which he'd been practicing for a while. Inside, his heart was singing – Baelish didn't know! He was throwing out accusations, to see what hit, but he knew nothing!

Her glare did not diminish. "Do you deny that you have married your sister, Sansa Stark, against the laws of gods and men?"

"I do not deny it, but I have broken no laws." Jon drew it out, relishing the puzzled and shocked expressions of the Lords of the Vale. "Lady Sansa is not my sister."

There were gasps in the hall, but not as many as the Vale lords had expected, clearly. Lord Royce, as the only one of them who was in the know, was shaking his head.

Now, Lord Baelish tried to take control. "By whose word do you say this?" His tone was sharp, and for a heartbeat, Jon wanted to rebuke him, remind him who he was addressing. But he wanted to deal with this situation and reveal himself at last. No more lies, even those of omission. He was tired of hiding.

"By the word of Lord Howland of House Reed, Lord of the Greywater Watch."

Now everyone looked shocked and surprised, and Sansa threw him a hurt look. Well, it wasn't as though he'd had the time to tell her any of this, and it wasn't something which could be put in a letter! Still, he tried to look apologetic. She just glared at him, mouthing the word "more". She seemed to think that it wasn't enough for people simply to be given a name.

Jon cleared his throat and went on. "Lord Reed was with Lord Eddard, in Dorne, when they slew the Kingsguard in order to rescue his sister, lady Lyanna Stark." He did not look to the side at Sansa to see if she was impressed by his use of the word 'slew'. But he was tempted. "She died in childbed, having given birth to . . . me."

Lord Baelish took two steps forward, his eyes glittering in triumph. "So you are the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, not a true Stark, or a true Northman!"

Jon felt himself grow very cold and hot at the same time and wondered if that was what going mad felt like. Then he realised it was just cold anger and an angry dragon, combined. "I am Jon Snow, just as I have always been. My uncle, Lord Eddard, was a true father to me, for which I will always be grateful. Lady Sansa, my cousin, is now my wife."

"And anyway," Baelish continued, as if Jon hadn't even spoken, "where is Lord Howland? Is he here? Where is your evidence for all these . . . fables?" He waved his hands in the air, as if to dispel the lies Jon was telling.

Jon was about to answer, when someone else did, for him.

"Of course he isn't here," Arya said, her tone as sharp as the sword she'd pressed up to his neck. She spoke from the doorway, where she was practically dwarfed by a large object she was struggling to carry in. "If he were here, he'd have something to say to _you_ , Lord Baelish."

Jon had the pleasure of seeing Petyr's face change, as he probably wondered who exactly this girl was, and what she knew about his affairs. Looking around him, Jon realised that few, if any recognised his erstwhile sister, and cleared his throat.

"Lady Arya Stark, returned to us, by the grace of the gods."

Arya gave him a sidelong look, and he raised an eyebrow. What if he was talking about her Many-Faced God, rather than the old gods? Anyway, Maester Aemon had told him that one of the gods at the temple in Braavos was the Frowning Tree, so he was telling the truth.

She finally reached the great table, and lowered the object she was carrying, with a crash that resounded around the hall. Then, she removed the cloth that covered it, with a flourish. There, for all to see, was an immense harp, with strings that looked like silver. Most were broken, but when a breeze came through the open window, there was a humming noise, like a few bees, lost on their way to their hive. Jon found himself drawn to the large harp, and passed a finger over the figurehead, which was a dragon.

Just as someone in the gathered group shouted, "that's Rhaegar's harp", another person, clearer than all the rest, yelled, "That's ironwood, that is!"

Men moved aside to reveal the young man who had spoken, and his face was familiar, though Jon had to strain to remember his name. "Is it Gared . . . Tuttle? Sworn to House Forrester?"

Gared raised an eyebrow, seeming to catch the hint Jon was trying to drop – not to mention the fact that they'd last seen each other at the Wall, when they were both in the Night's Watch. "Aye, your Grace," he said.

Yohn Royce almost turned on the man. "What do you know about this harp, young man?"

"I know that it was the honour of our house to make a harp for the dragon prince," Gared answered. "It was a secret that was only passed on when close to death, the same way that my uncle told me. There is proof that this is Prince Rhaegar's harp. To curry favour, my uncle told me, the craftsman was instructed to carve the following in the base: Rhaegar I Targaryen."

There were gasps among the Northern Lords, the men from the Reach, and the Knights of the Vale; then Jon, with an effort, turned the harp onto its side. He saw the inscription, which wasn't faint, as would be expected after twenty years. This was made of ironwood, which lasted. The people in the great hall craned their necks to catch a glimpse, and the murmuring broke out again.

"Where did you find this, Lady Arya?" This time it was Lady Waynwood asking the question.

For a moment, Jon wondered where Littlefinger had got to, but then he was distracted by Arya's answer.

"It was buried with my Aunt Lyanna."

The murmuring resumed but was quickly cut short.

"You lords say that you will not trust Targaryens, but I am young, and they have never hurt me." It was Gared again, with a defiant look on his face. "I was at the Red Wedding, and there were no Targaryens there. It was the Lords of the Crossing who murdered my lord Forrester, and all my friends. When I came back home, my family had been butchered by Bolton and Whitehill men, my Northern brothers!" The bitter tone was almost as painful to hear as what he was saying. "Young lord Ethan was murdered in our hall, at Ironrath! Not by any dragonlord, but by Ramsay Snow, lord Bolton's byblow! The lad drowned in his own blood in front of his lady mother, and who helped us then? No one!"

The Northern lords were trying to avoid each other's eyes at that point. Lord Glover, in whose lands Ironrath was, looked particularly abashed.

"You say that King Jon here avenged the Red Wedding, and if that is true, then he's good enough for me. Iron from ice!" he concluded, a defiant tone to his voice, and Jon had to conceal his pity. Those were the Forresters' house words – who else would say them, now?

"That's as may be, but who's to say the king is anyone besides Ned Stark's bastard?" So, Ser Lyn and Littlefinger were still in the hall, were they? It was the former who had spoken, Jon saw, but the puppet master wasn't far away, his hand on the strings.

Jon met Baelish's eyes, which glittered with hatred – he'd known that the man had been obsessed with Lady Catelyn, but with Sansa too? Corbray wasn't finished, though.

"A harp proves nothing, my lords, except that Lady Lyanna was beloved by Rhaegar Targaryen, which we all have known, for some time." Jon listened in astonishment. Corbray wasn't generally known for his eloquence, but he must have been trained very well. "Lord Reed is not here, and all I can see is an incestuous marriage, flying in the face of all the gods, old and new."

Corbray's fingers were twitching nervously about the hilt of his sword as he spoke, and Jon couldn't believe his eyes: this madman was going to draw steel on him in his own bloody hall. Well. Technically it belonged to Sansa, he knew that. He managed to pull himself together with an effort, and advanced on the Vale lord, making sure he expressed all his anger in his look. That he was successful, he knew by the faces of the other lords, who quickly backed away, leaving Corbray in a rapidly widening circle of empty space.

But Jon was dividing his senses, something he'd never known he could accomplish. While he saw and heard what was happening in the hall, he could also sense Viserion approaching. If he urged everyone outside, and timed it right, the dragon would appear as soon as everyone emerged into the courtyard. He wondered whether the Old Keep would be strong enough for Viserion to perch on, because the courtyard would be too crowded for him to land in. Well, it would have to be strong enough, because Viserion was approaching ever faster, and would arrive in a few heartbeats.

Jon glared at Corbray but said nothing as he walked past, and opened the two large doors which led directly to the smaller courtyard, where the small Sept had once stood. Before it had been destroyed by the Ironborn. He turned to the gathered noblemen and women.

"Come, my Lords. The courtyard will be large enough for me to show you my Targaryen heritage."

The Northern lords were rubbing their hands and grinning, like green boys who'd won their first swordfight, Jon thought. Yohn Royce was allowing himself a small smile, and when confronted by Lady Waynwood and Lord Hunter, simply answered, "Wait and see."

Corbray and Littlefinger he ignored, and Jon was glad of that. Lord Royce had finally chosen his side, and it was the right one. At first Jon strode alone, through the arch which led to the large courtyard, ahead of the others in the hall. It was not yet dusk, he thought, casting a critical look at the sky. Good. No-one could say that they hadn't seen what he was going to show them.

He looked to the side out of the corner of his eye – Sansa was speaking urgently to some Stark soldiers – and then looked ahead as she caught up with him.

"Is he close by?" she murmured.

He nodded, reached the middle of the courtyard, and turned to face them. By then, the word seemed to have spread among the Dothraki, the Unsullied, and the men from the Reach. They'd all seen Viserion before, but they would probably be surprised to note how much he'd grown. His thoughts were interrupted, though.

"Why are we out here, my lord, on such a cold and inclement day?" Littefinger's voice sounded especially peevish, but Jon didn't even address the fact that he was not, in fact, a lord, or wonder where Corbray had gone. Though it did worry him. No, instead, he burst out laughing, and intercepted a fleeting look of pure hatred on Littlefinger's face.

"Cold and inclement, my lord Baelish?" He tried not to sound contemptuous, he really did. But when he saw the Northern lords, they looked equally puzzled. The sky was clear, with only a few wispy clouds in the distance. There was snow everywhere, to be sure, but they were in the North, a few days from the Wall. "This is the North, my lord! is like a summer's day, for us. But I will not keep you here much longer."

At that very moment, almost as though he had planned it, Viserion, who had been gliding towards them as silently as an enormous dragon could, let out a mighty screech. Everyone looked upwards, where an immense white dragon flapped leathery wings to hover in place. Those who had seen him before wore expressions with different degrees of smugness, while the others looked equally terrified and entranced. Arya, for one, looked overcome with joy.

Jon had made sure that no-one would try to send an arrow Viserion's way, though his scales were so hard, nothing short of a scorpion would even make a dent. Still, he hadn't wanted confusion to break out, and had told Ser Davos to discreetly spread the word amongst sergeants who could be trusted. The servants he'd left to Sansa, and she was even now calming them, as much as she could.

Viserion flew the length and breadth of Winterfell, letting out the occasional screech, and finally settled on the First Keep, looking like nothing more than a gigantic bat, albeit one with very sharp teeth. Jon had sent the thought, giving it as much strength as he could, that there was to be no fire today.

Jon turned to Littlefinger in a sudden movement which seemed to take him by surprise, and was satisfied by the look of shock on the man's face. Jon wanted nothing more than to crow about his success in surprising the man who knew everything, all the kingdoms' filthy secrets. But he managed to quash the impulse, folding his arms.

"Well, my lord? Are you satisfied?"

Baelish gave a conciliatory smile: "Of course, your Grace! Never did I expect such a thing, a Stark _and_ a Targaryen! Surely-"

"Well, I'm not satisfied!" Sansa's words cut through Baelish's sure to be treacly speech like a sharp knife.

"My lady?" Baelish gasped, shocked to the core. Jon mused that not even the dragon had brought out such a reaction.

"I am not your lady – I am your Queen!" Sansa continued. "I accuse you, Lord Baelish! I accuse you of betraying my family and myself, to the Boltons, to the Lannisters, to whichever House paid you the most!"

"I deny that accusation!" Baelish had the audacity to look hurt at Sansa's words, and Jon shook his head.

Sansa wasn't finished. "I accuse you of persuading my Aunt Lysa to poison her lord husband, Lord Jon Arryn! I heard her with my own ears, say that you persuaded her to put 'tears' in Lord Arryn's wine, after which he sickened and died – because of the poison Tears of Lys!"

Littlefinger's eyes bulged. It seemed that he'd always thought of Sansa as a little kitten, Jon thought, but grown cats had claws. Speaking of cats, Jon was surprised to hear Jaime Lannister's voice.

"I accuse you of betraying Lord Ned Stark to his enemies, and later persuading King Joffrey to have him beheaded instead of sending him to the Wall, as had been agreed." Jaime smiled, sardonically. "Perhaps you shouldn't have betrayed your supposed ally in a throne room full of people, my lord. Even though I wasn't there, my sister told me everything."

Baelish opened his mouth to utter another denial, but was interrupted by Arya, this time.

"I accuse you of paying a Faceless Man, an assassin from Braavos, to murder Lord Eddard on the way to the Wall, if he had managed to take that road!"

Lord Baelish was starting to look like a landed trout, Jon thought. Even if half the people watching did not know what a Faceless Man was, they understood the word 'assassin' well enough. Jon wondered how Littlefinger would answer all these accusations, because a man accused had the right to defend himself.

As it turned out, Baelish chose not to avail himself of that right. Just as Jon had thought that no-one was watching Lyn Corbray, a shriek proved his fears right. The man had a very young stable boy, who had been fascinated by the dragon, immobilised, with an arm around his neck and a knife to his ribs. The scream came from his mother, one of the cooks, who had to be restrained from attacking Corbray with her bare hands.

Sansa stormed forward, enraged, and Jon was the one to hold _her_ back, with a few moments wasted before he realised that he was the only one who could lay hands on her.

"Keep back, all of you!" Baelish shouted, and Jon realised that, behind him, Brienne as well as many other lords had drawn swords. "You will let us ride out for a league, and no harm will come to him! I vow to release him after that!"

A few of the knights of the Vale who were still loyal to Baelish opened the gates, and Corbray managed to mount without losing his grip on the stable boy, who looked green with terror. Sansa, furious, pushed Jon away and wrenched a crossbow from a soldier, aiming at Baelish's back, and letting loose. The only reason she missed was that Baelish spurred his horse to a gallop, and Jon couldn't hold back his admiration for her attempt. Turning back to the crowd, he caught Arya's eye and felt his face grow warm.

He wanted to ask for calm, but felt that he could hardly do that with a mother who faced the possible death of her son. The cook was led away, half-fainting, while Brienne rushed up to them. "Your Graces, give me permission to follow them – I know I can do so without being observed!"

Sansa looked at Jon, her face full of hope, but he shook his head.

"Not yet, my lady. I know a quieter way."

Everyone turned to Viserion, who spread out his wings to their greatest span, and flapped so hard that many in the courtyard staggered. He flew off the First Keep, and landed in front of the main gate, causing people to gasp at his size; he looked so much bigger on the ground. Jon strode forward, beckoning Brienne, Ser Jaime, and Tormund to walk beside him.

"Wait a quarter of an hour, then follow them as best you can. I pray that they will keep their word, about the boy."

"Yes, your Grace," Brienne answered, and Jaime and Tormund simply nodded.

No doubt they would wonder why he'd asked them, Jon thought, as he climbed onto Viserion's back. Brienne's sense of honour would compel her to safeguard the young and innocent, no matter their station in life. Jaime would follow where Brienne led, that was clear now. And Tormund was Free Folk – he had much more sympathy for the smallfolk than all of the kneeler lords in Westeros. Though he'd certainly shown an interest in Brienne, also.

As Viserion ran in his usual ungainly fashion to build up speed, and then launched himself into the sky to the oohs and ahs of the watching crowd, Jon had only one thought: has he _grown_?

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 **Notes:**

So, I wasn't expecting to post so soon, but this chapter seemed complete, so there you go!

A few points:

Gared Tuttle is a character from the Game of Thrones Telltale game, which yes, I played this August instead of writing. But wait, come back! It only took me a few days, and I got this amazing new House (which I think is mentioned once in ASoIaF), and some things to add to my story.

Ironwood is canon, and the doors of the Winterfell Crypts are made of ironwood. Some things about Gared are from the game, others aren't. To be honest, I was kind of disappointed with Gared's denouement in the game, so I decided to steer him my way, and completely ignore the way the game ended.

Re. the Faceless Man Baelish is accused of hiring: what was Jaqen H'ghar doing in the black cells? Faceless Men don't stay anywhere they don't want to, and they especially don't choose the Wall. There was only one possible reason for his presence, and one man who'd have enough money to hire him.

So, what about Baelish, you ask? Oh, he's done - but not off-page, don't worry, I wouldn't do that to you.


	12. Chapter 12

Thanks so much for favoriting, following and writing reviews, I really appreciate it!

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 _"My lady has a thirst," Ser Lyn insisted. "Whenever she comes out to dance, she likes a drop of red."_

 _(A Feast for Crows, Chapter 23, Alayne I)_

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 **Chapter 12**

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The stable boy had not stopped yammering since they had ridden away from Winterfell, Lyn thought, and cursed the day he'd trusted Littlefinger's plan.

It had all seemed so easy, that day in the Eyrie. Though perhaps there had been bad omens from the start. Lyn had met Baelish in the room with the bloody moon door, and the wind whistling through the cracks had almost sent him mad. The little lord had taken to his bed, complaining, as always, at the lack of his cousin Sansa, and the death of his mother, until he'd been sent to bed with a dose of sweetsleep to keep him quiet.

Now that he thought about it, Lyn realised that he hadn't actually seen little Lord Arryn for about a week before they left the Eyrie for the last time. Was the boy even alive? He wouldn't put anything past Baelish. He'd been a fool to trust him.

Baelish had said that it would be a simple matter to expose this bastard, the self-styled King in the North, for the incestuous deserter from the Night's Watch that he was. But Baelish had not known about foreign soldiers defending this so-called King, had he? Or were Lyn and the other Vale lords the only ones in the dark? Still, he brooded as he rode, Bronze Yohn Royce had known – there was no surprise on his face, not even when that bloody great dragon had appeared.

Damn the boy, would he never stop squirming and whining? That was it, he'd had enough – there was an overgrown hedgerow, covered in snow, by the side of the Kingsroad, and Lyn deposited the boy in it. He didn't really care whether the child was hurt or not, he told himself, and spurred his horse to catch up with Littlefinger. As he did so, he overtook the three knights of the Vale who had chosen to cast their lot with the so-called Lord Protector. Lyn would not trust them as far as he could throw them. He grimaced as he kicked his mount ever harder in the flanks, barely conscious that he did so. Of course that jumped-up brothel-keeper had secured for himself the fastest horse.

"Why did you let the boy go?" Baelish yelled to be heard, before his words were swept away by the wind of their passage. "He was a much needed hostage!"

"D'you really think that bastard, whosever bastard he be, gives a fuck about some stable boy? He would just have slowed us down," Lyn countered, thinking that the boy would only have slowed _him_ down, which Baelish obviously cared not a whit about. "Where are we going?" he yelled into the wind.

"I have a ship waiting at White Harbor," Baelish shouted back, "it will take us to the Fingers – no-one will bother us there." He seemed to be finished, then turned back as though he'd heard Lyn's unspoken objection to this plan. "The maester at the New Castle is a Lannister of Lannisport!" The shouted words whipped by him, but Lyn still grasped their meaning. "He was not hard to bribe!"

Lyn understood: if a raven from Winterfell reached the castle, this maester would make sure the message was lost. If a message arrived at all. In the time Lyn had been at Winterfell, the ravens had diminished to a trickle, until none had arrived in the last few days. Either nothing had happened recently, or no messages were being allowed through. But by whom?

Lyn had been riding all his life, so he did not need to concentrate on the road, and just let the horse have its head. He wondered, though, how long the beasts would be able to ride at such a speed without foundering. Surely there would be an inn between Winterfell and White Harbor, where they could change horses. They had not ridden that way when they rode to Winterfell but had taken the road from the Vale, so he was unfamiliar with the terrain. Also, even though the night was clear, and moonlit, the silvery light gave the landscape a strange and eerie air.

As they rode, Lyn was surprised by a stinging sensation on his cheeks. Snowflakes? From where, though? There had been no clouds in the sky when they set out. A flurry was rising, out of nowhere, it seemed. Looking around him, wildly, it struck him that he could see neither the other Knights of the Vale, nor Petyr Baelish. Still, he did not slow down, and as his horse galloped on, he caught up with them. But they were not alone.

It was a picture out of the old stories, the ones from childhood. There was the tall white figure, with long white hair, blowing in the wind which had sprung up from nowhere. There were the wights, standing around, with glowing blue eyes, each carrying a makeshift weapon, each clearly dead. Finally, there was the snowstorm which Lyn's horse carried him towards, even as he tried to pull back on the reins.

As he caught up, Baelish's horse reared and screamed in fear, as did its owner, even as he fell off. All the horses went insane when the White Walker grinned, and Lyn slid off his before he was thrown. One of the Knights was not so lucky and hit the ground hard. It struck him that perhaps the man had been the luckiest of them all.

Baelish held his hands out in front of him while the White Walker advanced. "No! You're not real! You can't be real!"

The White Walker's grin grew even wider, even as the wights attacked the other knights.

"I demand to treat with your leader!" Baelish shrieked, changing tack, and Lyn shook his head.

Lyn could have laughed and cried at the same time, as he drew his sword, his Lady Forlorn, for what he was sure would be the last time.

The creature did not bandy words with Baelish. Lyn wondered whether it could speak. Mute or no, it still seemed to be laughing in Littlefinger's face as it unceremoniously ran him through with a broadsword which seemed to be made of ice. Still, Baelish clung to life, even as the blood gushed from his mouth, and he clung to the creature which had killed him. The White Walker pulled its sword out of Baelish's body and did not even bother to push it away, only turned to Lyn.

So dies the man who would have been King of all of Westeros, Lyn thought, distantly. He was aware that he should be attending to the matter at hand, but found it hard to focus on anything besides Petyr Baelish, earlier the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms, now dead in a hedgerow.

The White Walker advanced on him. It wasn't fast, Lyn thought, with a feeling akin to madness. It did not need to be fast. It advanced towards him at a certain inexorable pace, and he noted that its sword was covered in Baelish's blood, already frozen on its blade.

Lyn raised his own sword and kissed it. One last time, he thought, you and I. Then he met the White Walker's swing with Lady Forlorn and was shocked when his sword resisted, with a loud ringing. Was this the answer, he thought, Valyrian steel? He started to think, nay, to _hope_ that he might survive this fight after all. In the next few minutes, or they could have been hours, he wavered between hope and despair. He was a good swordsman, but his previous opponents had needed to breathe, had become tired, had felt the air turn sour in their lungs, just as he did. His new adversary needed no such thing.

Lyn felt like he had been battling for hours when, wonder of wonders, he saw an opening on the creature's side. He slashed quickly and backed away, to be able to dart in again and deliver the killing blow, but in the end, he did not need to. As soon as his sword touched the creature, it turned to ice and fell to pieces. The wights turned to him and he backed away. He wasn't sure if the sword would have the same effect on them. Had they not spoken of dragonglass, at Winterfell? Why hadn't he listened?

Lyn kept moving back, and they followed, until, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Petyr Baelish lying a few yards away, face up. Lyn knew he had seen the man die, but still – was it a trick of the moonlight, or were his fingers moving? He owed the man, and never let it be said that a Corbray did not pay his debts. He brandished his sword at the wights, and backed away to look closely at Baelish, whose cold blue eyes were staring up at him.

To be sure, Littlefinger's eyes had always been blue – but now they seemed to glow. With a speed Lyn hadn't expected, Baelish sprang up and ran at him, the look of contempt he'd become familiar with transformed into a mindless hatred, and something else . . . a _hunger._

Lyn backed away, stumbling, and slashed at Baelish, hitting him with a desperate, blind swing. The creature Baelish had become barely slowed down, even as his arm came away from his body, and dropped to the ground, twitching. Lyn felt his gorge rise and backed away further, remembering too late that there were wights to the rear as well as the front.

They brought him down, the dead men, and held him, while the thing that had once been Petyr Baelish was on him, its teeth in his throat. The others were not long behind, stabbing, slashing, and yes . . . biting.

The last thing his dying eyes saw was a white dragon gliding down towards him, its mouth opening – no. No. The last thing he saw was fire.

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* * *

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 **Note:**

As you can tell, this is more of an interlude - like the prologues/epilogues GRRM likes to write, in which the POV character dies. Poor Lyn!


	13. Chapter 13

_The crow landed on his hand and began to eat._

 _"Are you really a crow?" Bran asked._

 _Are you really falling? the crow asked back._

 _"It's just a dream," Bran said._

 _Is it? asked the crow._

( _A Game of Thrones, Chapter 17, Bran III)_

* * *

 **Chapter 13**

* * *

Jon had intended to follow the fugitives immediately, but once Viserion was in the air, he hesitated. Even though the winter sun was setting and darkness would soon follow, he couldn't be sure that they wouldn't be watching the sky for a dragon, now they knew of its existence. Jon would not risk the stable boy's life. Why should yet another child suffer for Littlefinger's perfidy and betrayal?

Jon's communication with Viserion had become ever easier over the weeks, and it just needed a thought and a few whispered words to get the dragon to circle the castle and fly over the Wolfswood. Jon knew where the fugitives were going, besides. Baelish would not risk trying to get to the Vale in winter – he would simply take a ship from White Harbor. As for any inconvenient ravens, anyone who'd spent any amount of time with Lord Manderley would have heard endless stories about spies in his household. Doubtless they would increase, now, Jon thought, seeing as an actual Lannister of Casterly Rock was at Winterfell, rather than a Lannister of Lannisport, which Lord Manderley's family seat was apparently saddled with.

A mental twinge of impatience from Viserion roused Jon from his brooding. Yes, he thought, they'd been given time enough. He took his bearings from Winterfell and headed East, following the White Knife to the Bite. The moon had risen in the meantime, and, besides the silvery light, what struck him was the silence. He'd expected at least the sound of owls or even wolves howling, but there was nothing. Perhaps the wind rushing past him as Viserion flew was preventing him from hearing anything on the ground, but the whole scene below him seemed dead, painted in stark lines of black and white.

The snowstorm was on him in an instant, and he was fully enveloped and almost blinded before he even realised it. Jon made Viserion circle around and back, and then take widening flights until he saw . . . well, something he could hardly believe.

It was a wall of flying snow, with the wind howling, but only within a small area. He thought he could hear shrieking in the air but wasn't sure if his ears were deceiving him. Viserion flew around and around, but still the bizarre blizzard persisted. Was that the sound of clanging swords that he heard?

Just as suddenly as he'd flown into it, the barrier of flying snow diminished and sank to the ground, and where it had been was a pile of wights, tearing at something on the ground beneath them. As his eyes strained to make out features in the moonlight, one of the wights raised its head and screamed defiance at him through bloodied teeth. With horror Jon recognized the rich cloak and finely coiffed head of Petyr Baelish, whose apparent loss of an arm wasn't holding him back.

Viserion reacted to his horror and descended, opening his mouth, ready to blow fire, but Jon glimpsed something else – there was a living man on the ground, on his back, reaching for them, weakly. Also, a few yards away, a knight of the Vale was trying to fend off some wights, although the wights looked to be winning.

As Jon pondered, the man on the ground fell back, dead. At least, Jon hoped he was dead. His injuries were too horrific to survive. When Viserion came around again, Jon reached a decision, and said a word. The tableau went up in flames, and Jon urged Viserion to land near the only survivor, the knight of the Vale.

"Get on," Jon shouted, reaching for the man. He'd never had a passenger on Viserion before, but he needed to know if the dragon would allow it. Best try with someone whose life or death was immaterial to him, he thought with a small measure of guilt, wondering if this was his Targaryen side coming to the fore.

The knight ran towards Viserion, but his hands were full. In one there was an ornate longsword, and in another there was a severed arm. Its fingers were moving.

"Proof, your Grace," the Vale knight shouted, his eyes seeming crazed. "For those who still doubt!"

Jon was filled with any number of uncharitable thoughts, not the least among them the fact that the last doubters were now wreathed in flames. Still, he took the twitching arm and wedged it as best he could between a few of the spines on Viserion's back. Then he pulled the man onto Viserion, urging the dragon to take to the sky. The wights were not completely gone. More dragonfire was needed.

Now would be the time for the knight to use that sword of his to stab Jon in the back, Jon thought, but he didn't. He just clung to Jon and the dragon, with sobbing breaths which eventually just became sobs. Jon didn't blame the man. He'd wanted to cry too, that day at Hardhome, watching the Night King raise his arms and bring the dead to life.

Viserion flew around in ever widening circles, every pass spreading more fire, until the wights, Baelish and Corbray were ash. Jon allowed himself a twinge of regret at the loss of Corbray, who had been, if nothing else, a great swordsman. He was about to mourn the loss of yet another Valyrian sword, when he caught a glimpse of the one the Vale knight was holding, his fingers clenched so hard the knuckles were white.

"How is it that you survived?" Jon shouted, trying to be heard over the rushing wind. He wasn't going to ask for the man's name. He did not particularly care.

The knight started babbling before Jon had even finished speaking. "The horses went mad, my l- your Grace! I was thrown, and hit my head. When I woke up, it was madness! Dead men attacking, Ser Lyn being butchered . . . he threw me his sword . . . "

Jon would have liked to give the man a sceptical look, but he was focused on not falling off Viserion. Yes, he truly believed that Ser Lyn Corbray had given this traitorous knight the ancestral sword of his House. He aimed his next words over his shoulder.

"You can give the Lady Forlorn to Lord Royce, then. He will return it to House Corbray when all of this is over."

A faint "Yes, your Grace," reached him before the words were blown away, as Viserion approached Winterfell. What, no pleading for his life, Jon wondered. Though the man was almost mad with fear – there was a wildness in his eyes spoke to that.

As Viserion prepared to descend, Jon saw that the main gates of Winterfell were open, and Dothraki and Unsullied were standing near, holding torches. He shook his head. That was much too dangerous, and he needed to tell them that.

Viserion landed in a great spatter of snow and mud, and Jon dragged the Knight off his back, telling him to get the arm, which had not stopped its useless movement. He patted the dragon on the neck, telling him to find a place for the night, and Viserion sent him the image of the cave he'd found when they'd first arrived at Winterfell.

With that exchange over, Jon vaulted off the dragon and watched it till it flew out of sight. Once inside the courtyard, he was greeted by the spectacle of the knight on his knees in front of Lord Royce, who was holding Ser Lyn's sword.

"Your Grace!" Royce exclaimed, and started to kneel, but Jon waved him upright irritably.

He was about to ask after Sansa, when he spied a wave of people coming from the great Hall. He felt strangely annoyed – possibly due to hunger and thirst – and was about to ask for some water, when Sansa approached, holding a steaming cup in both hands.

"Spiced wine, husband," she said, bowing as she gave it to him.

He managed to restrain himself from showing the more obvious signs of shock, though Arya, who he could see out of the corner of one eye, could not hold back a very obvious eye-roll. Brienne was there too, smiling indulgently, and he turned to her, after taking a long, much needed swallow.

"The boy?"

She forestalled any further questions. "Safe with his mother, your Grace. Unhurt."

Jon closed his eyes momentarily, a feeling of relief washing over him. No children had died tonight, at least.

"Your Grace?" Lord Royce sounded oddly tentative, and Jon turned, only to see the man holding Ser Lyn's sword gingerly, as though unsure what to do with it.

Jon had to clear his throat – or at least, he pretended to need it. "Ser Lyn gave his life trying to save Lord Baelish. The Lady Forlorn is all that remains . . . besides yonder knight," he added, nodding towards said knight, who hadn't moved from his kneeling posture.

"So Littlefinger is dead, then?" Sansa's tone was coolly neutral, but it seemed to Jon that everyone in earshot was listening carefully to his reply.

Jon simply pointed towards the kneeling knight, who threw on the ground in front of him the only remnant of the men who had ridden out of Winterfell a few hours before. It was the arm of Petyr Baelish, cut off, yet still moving. The fingers flexed and tried to grasp something, anything, and in their movement, everyone could clearly see the rings they'd all become familiar with – the biggest one flaunting the sigil of the mockingbird.

"There you have it!" Jon saw how people started at his words and his tone. Still, he knew this had to be done. Too long had he been kind. "That is all that remains of Lord Baelish, the Protector of the Vale! He chose to cut himself off from all of us, at a time when we must stand together." Yes, those were Frey words, to be sure, but when had the Freys ever stood with anyone besides themselves? Anyway, the Freys were gone. "The last I saw Lord Baelish he was a Wight gnawing at his men's entrails." Was he going too far? Or maybe, not far enough. Still, it was late, and they needed to rest. There was work to be done in the morning. Jon sighed, and gestured for a torch. He set fire to the twitching arm, making sure that everyone saw what he was doing. "Let us rest, for the night. Ser Davos will set up the night watch, and we will meet tomorrow morning."

Davos nodded in agreement, and Jon turned to Sansa, who had stayed behind. "Lannister and his men will need rooms . . . "

Sansa gave him a look. "I've been planning for that ever since I got your letters, Jon. And it's all been done, while you went on your little . . . jaunt." She accompanied her words with a small wave, and Arya, who was standing close, could not suppress a little smile.

"That's what it'll be like, being married to my sister," Arya sighed, pretending to pity him. The merry sparkle in her eyes belied her words, though.

"Actually, I was wondering when my lady learned to use a crossbow," Jon enquired, and they both looked at Sansa, who started to blush.

"Yes!" Something else occurred to Arya. "And why wasn't I invited? You only asked me to sew!" The disgust was palpable in her voice, and Jon had to bite his lip to keep the laughter in.

"I didn't trust you," Sansa answered, her voice sharp, though moderated by her smile. "And you," she aimed at Jon, causing him to wonder if her words were as sharp as her bolts, "you never even suggested teaching me how to defend myself."

"You never said anything," he answered, his tone mild. "Also, I think you need to teach the women of the keep what you have learned, my lady."

Jon snuck a look at her as she walked by his side, and caught the small, proud smile on her face, and breathed a sigh of relief. He'd finally said the right thing.

"I certainly will, my lord."

Arya, walking on his other side, rolled her eyes, and he grinned at her. "You're invited, too."

The next few weeks seemed to fly past, caught up as they all were in preparations for a siege of Winterfell by the Night King. For surely, that was how they would be attacked. Surely. Why hadn't his armies come yet? And why hadn't they received ravens in such a long time? Jon knew he could simply fly anywhere on Viserion, but he was loath to leave Winterfell again. Besides, there was so much to do – supplies of food needed to be organised, as well as fodder for the livestock. There were some who argued for a widespread cull so that they would have enough food for everyone, and Jon had never thanked the gods that he was king as on that day.

Even so, he did not have to argue against it, as Sansa's passionate words were enough, especially with his support. As he would have argued, culling was only a short-term solution – once the meat was finished, they would have no livestock in the spring, if spring ever arrived, and no way of getting any more.

Sansa always had much to say, whether it was to the assembled lords, or to him. Now that Jon thought about it, in those short weeks he spent more time with Sansa than he had when they were growing up together, at Winterfell. She always seemed to be at his side, whether it was in the Great Hall, or supervising the distribution of weaponry, or helping train all those who could not use swords in the use of a crossbow. Sometimes he felt as though she was expecting something from him, but he never really understood what it was. He rarely disagreed with her, although there was one time he wanted to, when she suggested they needed a feast.

"What for? Did we not just say we need to safeguard our provisions?" He was conscious of the whine entering his voice and tried to banish it.

Sansa spoke patiently, as if to a slow-witted child. "There has been no harvest feast at Winterfell this year, nor last year, nor the year before. Do you remember the harvest feasts . . . my lord?"

Of course he did, Jon wanted to say, and then he bit his lip, and thought before speaking. Harvest feasts had been about more than eating, drinking, singing and dancing. They had been a way for Eddard Stark to get to know everyone who lived at Winterfell, whether it was servant or lord, septon or maester. That had been how he showed himself the true Lord of Winterfell. Jon and Sansa exchanged looks, and he caught the pleased smile on her face when she realised that he'd understood.

"Anyway, we would not use more food than what is usually served at the evening meal," Sansa continued. "Besides, we have a wedding to arrange."

Lady Brienne had been blushing for a while, anticipating the topic, while Ser Jaime's sardonic smile seemed to be painted on his face. Jon remembered that a septon had been found amongst the Highgarden men – and he had agreed to wed the two, as well as perform any spiritual service that was asked of him by those who followed the Seven. One of them was Ser Davos, something Jon always forgot. They had found a small, unused room in the Bell Tower, which became a Sept, and Ser Davos had shyly offered small figures of the Seven that he'd carved. He'd told Jon, in confidence, that he felt he needed to offer penance for having allowed the Lady Melisandre to burn so many – statues as well as people. Jon had tried to reassure the man that surely he would have suffered the same fate if he'd really tried to cross her, but Ser Davos accepted no such comfort.

Jon made his courtesies and walked off to oversee the distribution of the dragonglass, when he heard a voice calling him. Sansa was hurrying to catch up with him, and he stopped, curious about what she wanted.

"I thought the feast could also settle our situation, my lord," she said, out of breath.

Jon found himself frowning. What situation? And why so formal? They were alone – or, as alone as one could ever be in a fairly busy passage in an enormous keep.

Sansa seemed to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. "It is time you moved in to the lord's chamber, Jon."

By the gods, he must be especially slow today, he thought, because he could not fathom her meaning. "I don't . . . but that is your room . . . where will you . . ?" He didn't have to finish.

"With you, of course! We are husband and wife, now!" Her voice increased in volume all of a sudden, and Jon felt his face burn.

He approached her, whispering urgently. "Sansa, I promised, you don't have to . . . I mean . . . "

"Oh, Jon!" She pulled him into a shadowed alcove, cradling his face in her hands. There were tears in her eyes, he noted, amazed. "You're so stupid, sometimes!" With that she kissed him, her face hot and wet with tears, her hair a perfumed cloud that he lost himself in, before he found his arms at her waist, pulling her closer. They kissed for hours, or even years, as time ceased to have meaning. People passed them by, pretending not to notice them, Jon surmised – he certainly did not see anything besides Sansa.

"So, Jon? Is it agreed?" There was love in her eyes, he realised – love for him? Could it be? He didn't trust himself to speak, and simply nodded, wishing himself alone so he could lick his lips and taste her again. He stood there for a while after she left, until Ser Davos found him.

It could not be truly called a harvest feast, because winter had come – it could not be called a wedding feast, because Lady Brienne had insisted that there should only be few witnesses and little pomp for their marriage. Once Jon had read Lord Selwyn Tarth's answer to Ser Jaime's request, he'd understood why. He still had to ask Lannister if he really agreed, though.

"Lord Selwyn says he will only consent to your marriage if you take on his name and you become the lord of Tarth upon his death, Ser Jaime." He could see Sansa's narrowed eyes, and practically read her thoughts – can't you be a little diplomatic, she was thinking at him, and he answered her in the same way, though she couldn't hear him. No. He couldn't.

They were standing outside the small room which had been turned into a sept, waiting for the Lady Brienne. In the end, only he and Sansa would witness the wedding of Ser Jaime Lannister to Lady Brienne, of House Tarth.

Ser Jaime did not answer, at first. "The things we do for love," he finally tossed Jon's way, just as the Lady of Tarth came down the walk. She was wearing skirts, unusually, but just as simple and stark as any armor. The colour was a rich and deep blue, and stitched along the hemline were the crescent moons and bright suns of her House. But Jon was still thinking of Ser Jaime's words – love? Did Ser Jaime really love Lady Brienne? That she loved him, there was no doubt.

Jon was so lost in his thoughts that he missed most of the long prayers the Seven seemingly required in order to bless a wedding, and only surfaced when the septon wound a ribbon around the couple's wrists, proclaiming them married. He'd never seen the Lady Brienne look so joyous, and even Ser Jaime's habitual smirk seemed more sincere than usual. Perhaps he does feel for her, Jon thought.

The feast passed in a whirl of music and dancing, and while there was food, Jon could see that Sansa had in fact been very prudent, using mainly the foodstuffs they had a surplus of, and making sure there was sufficient beer and spiced rum to keep everyone happy enough. A peal of laughter made him look up and he couldn't help the ridiculous smile he was sure was all over his face. Arya and Sansa were laughing, together, at some joke Arya had just told.

Jon swallowed a yawn which threatened to crack his jaw. He craved sleep more than anything, but did not want to interrupt the merriment which was still in full swing in the Great Hall. So, he decided to sneak away, and soon found himself at the door to his old chamber, before he realised that all his belongings, such as they were, had been moved to the lord's chamber. Flushing with embarrassment, even though he was on his own, he entered the larger set of rooms, glad that there were no guards to witness his mistake and gossip about it. A large fire had been lit, and it dawned on him, through the fog of his tiredness, that there was someone asleep in the heavy chair before the fire. He tried to shut the door quietly, but the sound woke her up.

"Sansa?" He took one step towards her and halted, unsure of his welcome, even now.

Her smile was tentative, and there was worry in her eyes. But she was smiling, even so, and as she smoothed down her skirts, it occurred to him that he hadn't seen her dressed like that before. It was a rich looking green velvet gown, with a wolf and a dragon embroidered along the bodice. They were entwined. Jon swallowed.

"New dress?" He wondered if she would remember that time at Castle Black.

Sansa beamed. "I made it myself . . . do you like it?"

"I like the wolf . . . and dragon bit . . .", he answered, and he had hardly finished when Sansa burst into giggles. He pretended to frown. "I'm not a poet!"

"Clearly," she answered, still smiling. Then she blushed, gesturing at the bed. "They've laid out nightwear . . . for us."

He walked towards the bed, and saw that there was a nightshirt prepared for him, as well as for Sansa, but he found himself strangely reluctant to take off his clothes. What if she had changed her mind? What if she hadn't meant any of it, and simply wanted the court to think they were . . . his mind shied away from the words like a frightened horse. He hadn't been with a woman since Ygritte, he realised, and the pain of her passing was a spasm, like a sore tooth. But distant, not so sharp as it had been. Was he forgetting her?

There was a little throat clearing behind him which brought him back to the present. "Perhaps we should prepare for bed . . . and then see how . . . " He faltered, unsure of what else to say, and snuck a look at Sansa. She was blushing bright red, and nodding, so he started the process of unlacing his surcoat and shirtsleeves, pulling the whole assemblage over his head to shorten the time he spent bare-chested. That he hadn't been quick enough to grab the nightshirt was proven when Sansa gasped.

She covered her mouth, her eyes filled with tears as she looked at his chest. "What did they _do_ to you?"

He looked down at himself – his scars actually looked better now than they had in a while. He took her hand and gently put it against his heart, which beat faster in response. "They don't hurt anymore, Sansa."

Sansa blushed even deeper, but she didn't snatch her hand back. Then her eyes widened, as she seemed to remember something. "I can't unlace this dress on my own – or my, um . . . stays."

Jon grinned. He had an idea that undressing a high-born lady would be much less simple than a woman of the Free Folk – and that was the last time he would think of Ygritte, he told himself, sternly. He was a married man, now. His duty was to his wife. "I'll give you a hand," he answered, as he quickly pulled the long nightshirt over his head, after making sure it was intended for him. The length was equal on both, but there was much less lace on his, he reckoned. Also, he could take off his boots and breeches underneath the shirt.

She turned around, and instructed him how to unlace her bodice and stays, which went well enough, and she quickly slipped the fine linen nightgown over her head as the rich silk velvet fell to her waist. She didn't cover her back immediately, though, and didn't turn around, either.

"There was something I wanted to show you, Jon." Her voice was steady, though he could tell it was an effort on her part to keep it so.

He looked down. It was an effort of will to keep silent, but he couldn't stop a short intake of breath when he saw the way a patch of skin had been removed from the small of her back. It was scabbed over and looked to be healing. It took him a heartbeat or two to realise that he was grinding his teeth.

"Jon," she said, reaching behind her for his hand. "It doesn't hurt anymore." She placed his fingers on it, and while she didn't pull away, her skin twitched under his fingers. "Is it terribly ugly?" she asked, and his eyes stung.

"It is beautiful," he replied. "A badge of honor." Jon pulled the nightgown over her shoulders and pulled her around to face him. Her eyes were as shiny as he supposed his own were, and once again, she was the one who pulled him in for a deep kiss.

Sansa pulled away, words on her lips, he thought, but then was surprised and amused to watch an enormous yawn, instead.

"Let's just rest, tonight," he said, and she agreed with a sheepish nod. She told him how to unpin her hair, and he couldn't resist running his fingers through the bright red strands once he had them loose over her shoulders, a perfumed wave which reached almost to her waist. This time he went in for the kiss.

Soon, they were dozing off in each other's arms, and he wondered that he wasn't disappointed that they hadn't gone . . . further. Still, he thought, as his eyes closed, and he drifted off to sleep, they had time. What was the rush?

It did not seem strange to Jon that he walked through the main courtyard of Castle Black, even though he seemed to remember that he slept in Winterfell, now. He was wearing the black livery of the Night's Watch, again, and, once again, crunched through the snow to a wooden board, on which had been scratched one word: TRAITOR.

"Jon?" He turned around and it was Arya in front of him, Arya, all in black, with a sweet, poisonous smile on her face. "For the Watch," she hissed, as she stabbed him low in the belly, punching the knife through him.

Sansa was next, in a black gown, her hair drawn back from her face, so severely . . . her face was a porcelain mask. "For the Watch." This knife was to his heart.

He dropped to his knees, but looked up, only to see a figure out of a tale of horror told around a winter's fire. It was Lady Catelyn, but a Lady Catelyn long dead, partially rotted, her throat cut to the bone.

"Jon . . . Jon!" That wasn't Lady Catelyn's voice, Jon thought, even as the hot blood seeped through his warm fingers as he clasped his chest. Another figure in black was approaching, a tall young man with a familiar voice, and face. But who was this boy? Had he been a brother of the Night's Watch?

Lady Catelyn hissed something at him, and the young man turned towards the wraith, waving impatiently at her. She vanished, and when Jon looked around him, they were alone.

"Jon, this is a dream! You must listen to me, I can't stay here for long." The familiarity of the boy's voice was overwhelming. But it couldn't be-

"Bran?"

Bran smiled.

Jon felt as full of joy as he had been full of fear, earlier. Still, how could this be? "But how are you walking? And what do you mean, this is a dream?"

"You must come here, to Castle Black – I've tried to send ravens, but they're being stopped on the way. I can't get to Winterfell. You must come to me; you must use him," Bran continued, and pointed to Jon's right.

When Jon looked, Viserion flapped his wings, almost bowling him over. Of course, Jon thought. He had Viserion now. He wasn't _in_ the Night's Watch any longer. But it was so hard to focus, and Bran must have realised this.

"You must come, Jon! And bring _him_ with you!" Bran pointed to Jon's left side, and when Jon looked in that direction, a fully-grown lion opened its huge jaws and roared.

Jon woke up and remembered _everything_. He knew what he had to do. He sat up, and gasped. Sansa was there. Not the dark, forbidding figure from his dream, but his sweet Sansa, her hair tousled around her face in a mass of red curls. She looked worried – perhaps he had cried out in his sleep. He tried to calm her with a gesture, but the stubborn look on her face spoke volumes. He would have to explain everything to her. Of course, he would. The only question was . . . how?

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 **Notes**

Just a quick comment. If you go to the reviews page, you'll notice that I have a case of the signed-in spambot garbage "reviews". I can't remove them, but I've reported them to the admins, and many userids are being reported. I hope once the site admins wake up the accounts will be deleted and the reviews will disappear.

Until then, please don't comment on them in any reviews. Just ignore them, as I'm doing!


	14. Chapter 14

_Jon Snow glanced up at the Wall, towering over them like a cliff of ice. A hundred leagues from end to end, and seven hundred feet high. The strength of the Wall was its height; the length of the Wall was its weakness. Jon remembered something his father had said once. A wall is only as strong as the men who stand behind it. The men of the Night's Watch were brave enough, but they were far too few for the task that confronted them._

 _(A Dance with Dragons, Chapter 7, Jon II)_

* * *

 **Chapter 14**

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As soon as Brandon Stark passed through the tunnel in the Wall to enter Castle Black, he knew he'd made a terrible mistake.

He watched as Meera dragged her feet for the last few steps, refusing anyone's help, and he kept watching as the new Lord Commander, Edd Tollett, said a few words to men he considered trustworthy to watch over her.

When Bran thought Meera was safe, he retreated into his thoughts and tried to focus them. Ever since he'd fully entered the weirwood, it had become so much harder to pretend to be himself. He was no longer just Brandon Stark – he was a murder of crows, flying over the Wall and deeper North, he was somehow watching a dragon fly over King's Landing, he was watching Mad King Aerys threaten to burn them all, whoever they were, he was falling falling falling from the Broken Tower-

"Lord Stark? Lord Stark!"

Bran looked around him. He was in a large room with a roaring fire at one end, and a desk at the other. He almost felt that he'd been in this room, at this desk, when Olly came in and told him that – but who was Olly?

Bran wasn't sure how long the Lord Commander had been calling him. He wasn't even sure he was Bran, anymore.

"I'm not Lord Stark, Lord Commander Tollett." Bran tried to put some emotion in his voice, he really did. Was this how he'd done it in the past? It had been so easy then. The Night King's mark on his wrist burned and itched.

"I'm not the Lord Commander, not really," Tollett insisted, and Bran managed to raise an eyebrow.

"Well, you're wearing his cloak," Bran commented, and the grin on Tollett's face told him that he'd said the right thing.

"Who are you, then, if you're not Lord Stark?" Tollett asked.

Bran wanted to answer that he was the three-eyed raven, or the three-eyed crow, but was he, really? He saw things, to be sure, and perhaps he was a greenseer or a warg. The thought of Summer's last moments of life caused a wave of pain so acute that it insisted he was still human. The ease with which he pushed it aside convinced him that he wasn't. He blinked a couple of times, and looked up at the worried face of Edd Tollett.

"Just call me Bran, for now."

"What were you doing beyond the Wall, if I may ask . . . Bran?" Tollett was making an obvious effort to be informal with him, Bran could tell.

"I was learning to become the three-eyed raven," Bran answered, and stopped. Why had he said that? He found himself still talking, even though he tried to stop. "It means I can see events from the past and perhaps even the future. I saw you, Edd, fighting the Others at the Fist of the First Men."

Edd looked up, and then rubbed his eyes. "Really? Did you see me run from them, almost pissing meself?"

Bran managed to bite his tongue before he said, 'almost'? This new habit of saying whatever he saw, or _saw_ , had to stop. He just blinked, instead.

There was a knock at the door, and some men of the Night's Watch came in, carrying a bowl of hot food and drink, and clothes of some kind. Bran flushed. He was glad of the food, but he hadn't been able to dress himself in years. Even in Bloodraven's cave there had been Hodor to help him, he thought. Remembering was like crashing into a brick wall. Once again, he was paralysed by an intense wave of agony. He was the one who'd done that to Hodor. It had been him, all along. He focused again on Edd, who looked like he sensed his conflict.

"Here, you can have something to eat and drink, but first you need to get into some dry clothes," Edd said, his tone both gruff and kind, somehow. "Don't worry . . . Bran, I cared for my mother at the end. I can help you."

Bran looked down, his sense of humiliation warring with the overall feeling of numbness which wanted to take him over. No, he tried to yell, feeling the irrationality of arguing with himself. I need this, he insisted, silently, biting his lip. Making an effort, he raised his head, meeting Edd's eyes. The kindness in them made him hate Edd, for a moment.

"Thank you . . . Edd."

Quicker than he'd expected, Bran was dry and warm, trying to restrain himself from wolfing down a bowl of stew. In between gulps, he realised that he hadn't asked after Meera. But as soon as he raised his head, Edd seemed to sense what he was going to ask before he asked it.

"She's in the Maester's quarters, the lady Reed, is it?" and continued when Bran nodded. "Truth to tell, once she saw the library, it was like she fell into a trance," Edd said, his voice full of amusement. "We had to remind her to eat and change into dry clothing – we didn't have any women's clothes here," he added hastily, "but the Night's Watch had many more men, and boys, in the past. Some young boys' clothes will fit her well enough."

Bran finished the stew and drank some of the hot spiced wine. He remembered what he'd read about the Wall and Castle Black – that it had an immense library – and hoped that Meera was really that fascinated by all the books there. He had an inkling that they would be staying there for a while.

As he sat there, in this room which he suspected was the Lord Commander's, he found his eyes blinking slower and slower, until they started to close, and gentle hands took the cup away from him. No, he wanted to protest, there was no time for sleep, he needed to find Jon . . . Jon was the key to everything . . . his was the song of . . .

But even in sleep, Bran found no rest. He flew over an enormous battlefield in which a man on a grey horse rode wildly towards rows of archers, in which a giant batted horses and riders aside as though they were toys, in which men died in their thousands. He was in the godswood at Winterfell and watched Sansa (an older Sansa who he barely recognised) argue with a lord who was unknown to him. He flew away from Winterfell, the shouts of "King in the North" following him as he was buffeted around by three enormous dragons, no, two enormous dragons, but where was the third?

All through these dreams, the one he wanted to see was hidden from him. Even in his sleep, the Night King's mark burned so violently that his entire arm ached, but he never saw the White Walkers, or their armies. Where were they? He could not shake the feeling that they had breached the Wall, but where . . . and how?

Bran woke up, and he was still asking himself the same question. Where were they? He and Meera had been pursued relentlessly until they'd ben rescued by Uncle Benjen, but now . . . nothing.

He stared sightlessly ahead as he was dressed, as the brothers of the Night's Watch brought him a breakfast which he ignored. A timid knock at the door roused him from his stupor, and he called for whoever it was to come in. It was Meera, dressed as one of the Night's Watch, and he had to smile. She grinned back, clearly relieved that he was reacting to something.

"I know, but it's all they had!" she said, gesturing to herself. Then she looked at his uneaten breakfast and frowned. "Bran, you need to eat."

He sighed. It was some kind of porridge, with a dried plum, and spiced ale. He took a few spoonfuls, then found himself emptying the entire bowl.

"Meera, I'm so sorry," he started, and she looked up at him, puzzled, from her seat in front of the fireplace. "I don't think we can leave Castle Black for now."

She just looked pained. "I had thought as much," she answered, and continued when she saw his enquiring look. "I've been up on the Wall," she said, "and all the storms are brewing southwards, closer to Winterfell."

Bran leaned back in his chair. "I think he's come through the Wall, Meera." He stared into the fire. "I think it's my fault, just like Summer. Just like Hodor." The last words were a whisper, but she heard him.

"Bran . . . don't!"

He looked up in surprise at her fierce tone.

"The Night King was on his way before we were even born, Bran! Jojen started having greendreams when he was still a little boy, telling him to come to Winterfell, to free the chained wolf and bring him North of the Wall." Her hands twisted together as she spoke, and Bran realised how much it pained her to think of her brother. "It's Bloodraven I blame, not you. He should have told you more – or maybe it was his plan, all along."

Bran worked on this thought. "You mean, everything was planned . . . he was just manipulating me – into going off on my own, into a greendream?"

Meera shrugged. "He always managed to keep you under his control before – what changed? The board was set. The pieces had to move."

Like a game of cyvasse, Bran thought, and felt a chill go down his spine in spite of the warmth of the fire. So now what? Did he work on the mystery of how the Night King had gone through the Wall, or was there something else he had to do? His yawn took him by surprise and he flushed, embarrassed.

"Maybe that's what you're meant to do," Meera said, as if she'd been reading his thoughts.

"What, yawn?" Bran asked, annoyed at himself. He'd just spent a whole night asleep, he couldn't possibly be tired again.

"No!" she answered, smiling at him. "You need to dream. You'll find the answers there, I'm sure of it."

Bran wished he could be as sure, but all he could think about was the sound of Summer dying, and all he saw was poor young Wyllas, his mind destroyed through Bran's careless actions.

She got up, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. "Bran, try to rest. You've been through so much."

As though her words were magic, he found his eyes closing, no matter how hard he tried to keep them open. "What will you do?" he mumbled.

"I wish you could see the library here, Bran! It's enormous! Also, there's the ravens to look after, and I thought I'd try to send a message home. I don't think I can tell Father about Jojen yet, but at least I can . . . "

Meera's voice faded away as Bran drifted, at first into sleep and everyday dreams. He was back at Winterfell, and it was the last harvest feast before everything changed, before the King came to visit. Everything that was edible had been eaten, and he was playing with Rickon, tickling him as he giggled helplessly.

Bran tried to ignore it at first, but he knew there was someone at the door – not the main door to the Great Hall, but one of the smaller side doors, leading to the servants' passage. He disregarded it until he couldn't, but eventually he looked up, and Jojen's green eyes glowed in the smoky firelight of the hall. Bran sighed and got up. Rickon tried to hold on to him, crying, but Bran knew he had to go. When he looked back, one last time, all the members of his family were watching him. He wanted nothing more than to stay there, with them, forever if need be. But he walked through the door, and everything changed.

He was beyond the Wall, flying over the trees, and watching a battle between wights and what looked like Wildlings, along with one member of the Night's Watch. He managed to catch a few words which flew his way during the battle: blood magic. His confusion threw him out of the greendream, if that was truly what it had been, and for a while he flew aimlessly over the North, here seeing a red-haired girl riding to Winterfell on a grey horse, there seeing a white dragon fly overhead, and finally another battle. This time it was between a red-cloaked army and undead wights, but these were the swamps of the Neck. How, he asked himself, had they progressed so far South?

As though that final image woke him out of a greendream, Bran flew straight through a window into a memory of his own room, at Winterfell, with Old Nan telling him a story.

"The monsters cannot pass so long as the Wall stands and the men of the Night's Watch stay true!"

Bran asked himself what staying true really meant, and as though the old gods heard his question, he was dragged from his childhood bedroom and thrown at the Wall, many years in the past. This was the Wall in its infancy, and the Night's Watch at its strongest, with so many black clad figures scurrying about that it could have been the greatest army in all seven kingdoms, if the vows hadn't set it apart. The vows . . . _the vows!_

Bran was shocked awake. He understood what had to be done. At least for now. The problem would be explaining it all to Edd Tollett.

Some hours later, he found out that he was right. Tollett had started out by listening to him, and then got up, walked to the window and stared out, rubbing his chin reflexively.

"Once I told your half-brother that gods and dogs alike delight to piss on me. It seems I should have added whatever you say you are . . . a crow with three eyes? Never seen one of them."

Bran said nothing. He was getting used to this Dolorous Edd, as the men called him. Often, when he talked to you, he was really talking to himself.

"So, how is this thing going to be organised? Have you thoughts about that?"

Bran's mouth dropped open. "You'll do it?"

"It seems as good a way as any to keep our sworn oaths – to defend the realms of men. Aye, and women too," he said, smiling at Meera, who'd joined them at some point in the last hour.

"I don't understand, Bran," Meera said, not looking puzzled at all. When she noticed his eyes on her, she gave Edd a sideways look. Perhaps Bran hadn't said as much as he could have. After all, this was no small thing he was asking Lord Tollett to organise.

"My nurse always used to tell us that the Wall will protect us, as long as the Night's Watch holds true. But she never told us what that really meant. In one of my visions I think I saw the true oath-taking ceremony, the one which really wove the magic into the Wall. It's something that has to be renewed, over and over, but it was forgotten long ago." Maybe even on purpose, Bran thought, remembering the tale of the thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.

"But you've said, Lord Commander, that White Walkers and wights have already been seen south of the Wall." Meera was doing this on purpose, Bran realized. She was bringing Edd's doubts out into the open, so that Bran could argue against them without arguing with the man himself. He gave her a grateful look and she blushed, looking down.

"They've come through somewhere, yes," Bran said, adding "because the magic has been weakened so much it only took one last strain to shatter it completely." Yes, he thought, such as an idiot with the Night King's mark on him going through it. "But there are so many unmanned castles on the Wall . . . and anyway, that's not important. The spells need to be woven once more, in such a way as to keep any of the Others who have not passed through inside, and to prevent the Night King's retreat."

Edd was nodding – this was a strategy he could understand. But he wouldn't like the next part.

"The true ceremony involves blood magic." Bran knew he needed to be as clear as possible. There could be no ambiguity here. Still, Meera was the one who looked shocked, while Edd's phlegmatic expression did not change. As the shadows lengthened and Meera rose to light the candles, Bran explained the ceremony he'd watched in his vision. Edd never disagreed, and in the end, Bran felt he had to ask the question that had been nagging at him for a while.

"Your men . . . the brothers of the Night's Watch: will they agree? I have heard of mutinies, in the past . . . Meera and I, we were captured by mutineers, and they almost-"

Bran stopped. He'd caught a glimpse of Meera's face, and realised that he couldn't say more.

Edd gave him a knowing look. "Say no more, my lord," he started, and then smirked when Bran winced. "Did you know that there was another mutiny recently, against Jon Snow?"

Bran remembered a vision of a snow-covered courtyard filled with black clad figures, and one lone man on his knees. "I thought that was just a nightmare," he whispered.

"No, it happened," Edd said, scratching his neck. "They butchered him. But he came back, or was brought back, I'm not sure. And we hanged the officers who betrayed him. So no-one's up for rebellion anymore."

Meera was looking at both of them like they'd lost their minds. Bran couldn't blame her.

"You're saying that Jon Snow was brought back from the dead? Your half-brother?"

With a guilty start, Bran realised that he hadn't told her of the vision he'd had, of the Tower of Joy, and Aunt Lyanna asking his father to watch over her baby – Jon. Though he realised that if he simply answered that Jon wasn't his brother, she'd throw something at him. But Edd spoke before he could.

"There was a priestess here, a follower of Rrr – Rhr – of the Lord of Light; she said a bunch of prayers, trimmed his hair, and a few minutes later up he came, same miserable bastard as he always was."

Bran had to smile. Edd noticed, and looked away, pretending to a stoic nature, while he cleared his throat.

"So, what's this new ceremony all about then?"

A few hours later, Bran listened at the window while Edd gave the men their instructions.

"Now, I'll say it again – I will put you in pairs, and each pair will ride to the fort I'll assign you! Don't founder the bloody horses, because you'll get none more! On sunset of the fifth day, the horn will sound along the Wall for rangers returning, and that's when you'll take your oaths! Is that clear?"

The men must have looked blank, because Edd continued.

"You take your dagger in your right hand, and you make a cut on your left hand, like so! Then, you place your hand against the Wall and you recite your oath, both of you, together- yes, what is it? What's your name?"

Bran looked down into the courtyard – a man had raised his hand, and Bran remembered that there were some new Night's Watchmen, some knights of the Vale who had taken the black rather than be executed by Jon.

"I am Ser Hugh," the man said. "Is that not . . . well . . . blood magic?"

"Yes, it is!" Edd glared around him. "Most of you here have seen what we face – the Others, or White Walkers, or whatever you want to call them! You've seen your own brothers cut down, and brought to life again to murder you! This is what we have to do to fight them, and I won't hear any more argument about it!"

Bran had told Edd that he would be warging into crows to watch them, but Edd had decided against telling his men that.

As Bran watched, the brothers of the Night's Watch got on their horses and rode away. When he'd asked why Edd had made them go in pairs, Edd had answered, "To keep them honest." Edd's frank manner was something Bran was getting used to. He quite enjoyed it.

As the days passed, Bran started preparing himself for warging, or greenseeing, or whatever it was that he was now capable of doing. Because that was the horrifying and amazing thing – he was capable of this. He could do this and more. He would use anything and everything as his eyes, and oh, he would fly!

When the fifth evening arrived, and the horn started blowing from Eastwatch by the Sea until the Shadow Tower, Bran leaned back and was gone from his broken body, onwards and outwards.

He was a crow at the Long Barrow and another crow at the Nightfort; at Woodswatch by the Pool he wasn't sure whether he had wings or branches, and at Greyguard he had such wolfish thoughts, he almost believed Summer had come back to him. It went on and on, until he reached Westwatch, and then he followed the Vow back again along the Wall, through many eyes.

At Westwatch by the Bridge, the two men there were Jaremy Rykker and one of the new Night's Watch recruits. They heard the horn sounding rangers returning from the Shadow Tower, and approached the Wall. Bran waited, or rather, his crow bodies waited, and he sensed that the men were unsure of the use of what they were about to do. Nevertheless, they exchanged grim looks, took out daggers, and slashed their left palms, putting their bleeding hands against the Wall.

 _Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death._

The two Night's Watch men at Stonedoor had been there a while before they started, it seemed. Their horses were rested and had nosebags around their necks.

 _I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory._

The Nightfort was as terrifying as it had always been. The men assigned there had begged Edd to let them leave as soon as they'd recited the oath.

 _I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls._

At Castle Black, Edd and the rest of the men there were reciting the oath, and Bran couldn't resist a sly caw as he flew past.

 _I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men._

So it went, castle after castle, the one man declaiming loudly, the other stammering and stuttering his way through the oath. But they all did their duty, all successful, until Bran tried to open his eyes in Eastwatch by the Sea and found he couldn't. Every time he tried, it was as though an unknown force was pushing him back. Finally, he slipped inside a horse and opened his eyes onto a battle.

The White Walker standing there, not even bothering to attack the two men, was one Bran had seen before, in his vision of the Night King. Even though it was just observing, its undead soldiers were not. They were gaining the upper hand, against the two brothers of the Night's Watch. If they didn't succeed, the White Walker would finish the job. Bran didn't have time to think about it – one moment he was still inside the horse, which was very close to panic, the next he was in the wights. All of them.

It was horrible. He was dead, and knew he was dead, but he moved and fought. He was angry and hungry, so hungry for hot flowing blood, he wanted to stab and bite and rend and tear.

Bran used all his strength to stop the wights, to pull them back, sending them screaming at the White Walker, who cut them down without a thought. Bran had held back the least-rotted wight, the one who still had vocal cords, and turned to the two Night's Watch men, who were gasping for breath, glad of the momentary respite from a losing battle.

Bran tried to say the word clearly, but the body he was in had not spoken in a very long time. It came out as a long hiss. " _Dragonglass_ . . ."

The two men looked at each other, puzzled. Bran tried again, making the rotted jaws open, urging the tongue to move. _"DRAGONGLASS!"_

He knew they'd been given dragonglass daggers – had they forgotten? Through dead eyes, Bran saw the knowledge dawn on their faces, but there was something else, too. The men exchanged a look and a nod. Then, one pulled out a dagger with a black, jagged blade, while the other turned to the White Walker, who was now stalking towards them, and charged at the creature, sword upraised.

What was he doing? Bran wondered, even the White Walker raised his own ice weapon with a lack of urgency that signalled a bottomless contempt for the human warriors facing him. But it was a ruse, Bran realised – the one with the sword simply distracted the Other, while the one with the dragonglass knife circled behind it. As the man with the sword was run through, the other Night's Watch man stabbed the White Walker in the back of the neck, watching, mouth open, as it screamed and shattered into a million icy fragments.

The Night's Watch man dropped to his knees and vomited. It was Ser Hugh, Bran realised, no longer of the Vale. He was a true brother of the Night's Watch, now.

"He gave his life for me," Ser Hugh said, in between gasps. "Why would he do that?"

Bran couldn't reassure or explain in this form. Instead, he pointed at Ser Hugh. _"Oath_ . . ."

Later, he would think that was as good an explanation as any. The brothers of the Night's Watch had sworn an oath, to each other, as well.

Ser Hugh got up, stiffly, as if he were a hundred. He scrubbed his hand roughly over his eyes, took out his dagger, and cut his palm.

 _I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come._

Bran felt it. He felt the magic return. Ser Hugh gasped and pulled his hand away from the Wall, staring at it as if he'd been bitten. It was done. Bran finally closed his eyes, feeling as though he could sleep forever. He knew that Meera was waiting for him to wake up, so he couldn't rest for long. Just an hour or two, he thought muzzily. I'm so tired . . .

Unfettered, he let himself be blown around by the winds in the North. There was a distant voice, a faint voice, a woman's voice, which sounded familiar, but he ignored it. As he flew, he observed, almost without wanting it, how ravens froze solid and hit the ground, their messages forever unread, how horsemen were attacked on the road by White Walkers and wights, how whole villages were being emptied by the dead and those who herded them. Even though he didn't want to keep going, the final discovery was tantalizingly near, always over the next ridge, past the next cloud. Until he saw . . . everything. He knew what the Night King planned, and where he was now. And unless Bran found Jon and spoke to him soon, all would be lost.

He had to go to Winterfell and speak to Jon in a dream, just like Bloodraven had once spoken to him, but would Jon listen? Jon wasn't a greenseer. Bran managed to use the roots of the weirwood tree in the godswood to get into Winterfell, and the keep itself. There was a great feast happening, and Bran felt wistful for the last harvest feast, with Maester Luwin and Rickon and Ser Rodrik – no! He could not be distracted!

A tall blond man in golden armor and with a golden hand snuck away from the festivities, dragging behind him the tallest woman Bran had ever seen. He knew the man, but not the woman. Still, the expression of intense joy and love on her face made him envy the man. No woman would ever look at Bran with that expression on her face.

A sudden pain on his forehead, very much like a raven's beak pecking at him, brought him back to his purpose. Jon, he had to find Jon, the king in the north, and much more besides. And with that he flew through the castle until he found himself in Jon's dream. For a moment he thought he'd made a terrible mistake, and had landed back in Castle Black.

But no, this was Jon's dream – Jon's _nightmare_ – and Bran could only watch, transfixed, as Jon was stabbed and betrayed by those he trusted the most. When the last horrifying figure appeared, Bran knew he could watch no more, and finally spoke to Jon.

It was as though that moment made it even more difficult to stay in the dream than ever, as if an invisible rope was pulling him back towards Castle Black and his own broken body, a rope made up of a woman's voice, saying his name.

"Bran . . . wake up! Please, please, you must wake up! I can't lose you too . . ."

The last words were said in a whisper, full of such pain, that Bran could keep away no longer. Still, his eyelids felt as though they were made of lead, and his voice, when he tried to speak, was nothing more than a croak.

"The Horn of Joramun . . . " That was not really what Bran had intended to say, but somehow, those were the words which had come out of his mouth.

"Good morning to you too," a sardonic voice answered.

Bran finally managed to prise his eyes open, only to see Lord Commander Tollett at the foot of his bed, grinning at him. Shifting to the side, he glimpsed Meera, eyes swollen and red, still trying to smile through tears. What had happened? Surely it hadn't been more than a few hours, surely . . . His puzzlement must have been quite evident, he realised, when Meera answered his unspoken thought.

"Bran, you've been asleep for days! We couldn't wake you, no matter how hard we tried . . . I thought . . . " Meera looked down, and away from him.

Bran winced. He had to release her, as soon as it was safe to travel. He had nothing to offer to any woman, not just because he was crippled, though he felt, not quite crippled enough not to have any interest in . . . women. No, that was not the real problem. He was the three-eyed raven now, he was everyone, and everything. But he could not be a husband. He managed to squeeze Meera's hand in what he hoped was a reassuring manner and turned to Lord Tollett.

"Have the men returned from their assignment?"

Edd's shrewd eyes hadn't missed anything, Bran saw, but the man still turned to the task at hand. "Aye, most of them. Ser lately from the Vale had an interesting tale to tell – of a dead man whose eyes turned white. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that?"

Bran met his eyes without flinching. "Nothing."

"Aye. Thought as much." Edd turned away, scratching at the back of his neck. "So, what was that about a horn?"

Bran closed his eyes momentarily, trying to recall the short glimpse he'd gotten. "When you went ranging beyond the Wall . . . Samwell Tarly and Grenn found an old warhorn . . . Samwell carried it all the way back here, even though it was heavy and he was tired . . ." His voice faded away, and nothing could be heard in the room except the crackling of the fire in the grate.

Edd rubbed his moustache. "Yes, I think I know where it is, but-"

There was a sound in the air, a sound so loud it battered at the ears. It was a sound that hadn't been heard at the Wall for hundreds of years. It was the screech of a dragon. Meera and Edd rushed to the window, while Bran closed his eyes. He'd forgotten to tell them about Jon.

When Bran was finally carried on a chair to the top of the stairs to the courtyard, the sight that greeted him was nothing like anything that he'd seen in any greendream.

Through the open gates of Castle Black he could see an enormous white and gold dragon, sat on the ground, its huge wings furled around it, surveying its surroundings with a certain imperious disdain. Men were circling it, exchanging admiring comments, and with every new compliment, the dragon's head climbed higher.

Jon was there too, and seemed to be telling one of the cooks what would be needed to feed it. Bran focused on Jon, first. He didn't really want to look at Jon's companion yet. He chided himself – wasn't he the one who had asked for the man's presence in the first place? Yes, but he didn't have to like it, Bran thought, aware of how peevish that sounded, even in his head.

Jon looked different, yet the same. He had more scars, and walked with more surety, but a happy grin made him once more into the boy he'd been, Bran's half-brother. Bran steeled himself, and turned to Jaime Lannister, only to find that the man was staring back at him.

Bran didn't flinch. He was proud that he didn't flinch. But he needed to focus on Jon, first. Everything rested on Jon. If Jon fell, or chose wrongly, they were all lost. As though he heard Bran's thoughts, Jon turned and looked straight up at him, an enormous grin on his face. He bounded up the stairs two at a time, and enveloped Bran in a huge hug.

They were finally settled in the Lord Commander's chamber – Bran, Jon, Jaime Lannister and Meera. Edd had gone off to look for something, he'd said, and Jaime was huddled over a cup of spiced wine, in recovery, it seemed, from his first dragonflight.

"So," Jon asked, choosing his words with care, "you know . . . about . . . " He made a gesture which looked to gather up the dragon asleep outside, as well as the one embossed on his gorget, facing a Stark direwolf.

"Yes, Jon," Bran answered, feeling some relief. That was the easiest of the questions to answer. "I had a vision of your birth. I know your true name; it's-"

But Jon raised a hand to stop him. "My name is Jon. That's all it can ever be. Do you understand why?"

Bran tried, he did try, but all this politicking seemed so petty to him now, like cocks scrabbling over a dunghill. It was about the throne, the Iron Throne. But soon it wouldn't even exist anymore, he thought, and it was on the tip of his tongue to tell Jon that. But then it was as though his words froze, sticking in his throat. He heard a voice tell him to be cautious, not to go any further than he needed, and gave in.

"Yes. I understand." The look of relief on Jon's face made Bran glad he'd chosen that road. He deliberately asked after Sansa and Arya, and let Jon talk for a while about Winterfell and its many changes. He didn't mention the terrible things that had happened to all of them since they'd left Winterfell, and Bran was glad of it, happy to lose himself in pleasant memories, if only for an hour or two.

They were interrupted by a sound at the door – half knock, half scratch – and Edd Tollett came in holding a battered old warhorn, the same one from Bran's vision.

"So, is this the one you meant?" Edd asked, and Bran nodded.

Jon looked at each of them in turn, while Lannister and Meera simply looked puzzled. "That's the old warhorn Sam found at the Fist," Jon said, speaking slowly.

"Aye," Edd answered. "But your half-brother here – begging your pardon, your Grace – your cousin says that it's the Horn of Joramun, whatever that is."

"Will you stop calling me that?" Jon exclaimed, and then his ears seemed to catch up with Edd's words. "That old thing is the Horn of Winter? The one which wakes giants from the earth? But it's broken! Besides, all the giants are gone now."

All eyes turned to Bran, while he retreated into his skull. He was going to tell them all, he just had to get his facts in order first.

"What is the truth behind the story of Brandon the Breaker and Joramun, King Beyond the Wall? All the stories tell that they made an alliance to defeat the thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, who had betrayed us all by marrying a strange lady from the land of Always Winter, and sacrificed his brothers to the Others."

Lannister looked like he'd never heard this story before, but the others just settled back into comfortable chairs as the afternoon drew on.

"But how did they do this? Legend says that Joramun blew the Horn of Winter, and woke giants from the earth. Later wildling legends grew out of this, saying that if the Horn of Winter was blown, the Wall would fall, but why would Brandon Stark, King in the North and Lord of Winterfell desire such a thing?"

Bran tried to make his story sound interesting, tried to remember the rhythms as Nan would have told it, and hoped his audience wasn't falling asleep.

"Of course, he wouldn't. And that wasn't what the Horn was for, anyway – it was for 'waking giants from the earth'. But the old legends never really say what they mean, everything is a code, a riddle to be unravelled. Our House words, for example – Winter is coming. Why would we, who live so close to the Wall, so deep in the North, need to be reminded of that simple fact? Unless, of course, Winter does not refer to the season . . . but him."

There was a collective shudder in the room. Bran hardly dared speak his name, for fear of calling his attention down upon them, now that Bran had seen what he was doing, where he was.

"And the same goes for the Horn of Winter. Why would those two, the Stark of Winterfell and the wildling king need giants – they had giants. But giants from the earth might mean something else. Perhaps it means giants among men . . . kings of old, who were larger than life in word and deed. The Kings of Winter."

There was silence in the room, except for the cracks of the wooden logs splitting in the fire.

"Joramun died after blowing the Horn," Meera said, and her voice broke the spell of silence that had descended on them.

"Yes," Bran said. "And I think Brandon broke the Horn, so that it could not be used again."

"But how can we use it then," Jon said, sounding frustrated. "And is it wise to use a Horn which might wake the dead? Don't we have enough problems with dead men coming to life?"

"Present company excepted, of course," Jaime Lannister murmured, barely audible, and Edd Tollett grinned at him.

Jon rolled his eyes.

"I think that the other part of the Horn is at Winterfell, hidden away, and needs to be joined to this in order to work. It needs . . . some kind of . . . " Bran hesitated, hardly daring continue. Yes, it needed magic. But what kind? Blood magic, again? What was he doing, dabbling in all this, even if it was to save them all? Was this what Bloodraven had meant him to do, or was he doing everything wrong?

Bran looked up to see the others all looking at him, expectantly. He flushed. "I think it's hidden in the crypts, at Winterfell, in the oldest part, the one with the collapsed wall. Perhaps if it can be found, we can find out how to use it. There will be an attack on Winterfell . . . soon." He looked at Jon, who was staring at the Horn as if it would give up his secrets if he glared hard enough. This would be the most difficult part of all.

"But not you, Jon. You must fight the Night King where he is now, or will be, shortly . . . " All eyes were on Bran, astounded. Hadn't that been what they were all talking about, their eyes asked him? Bran shook his head.

"He is in King's Landing."

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 **Notes**

The reviews are still there, please keep ignoring them!

The theory about the Horn of Winter and the Crypts of Winterfell is from the amazing youtube channel, In Deep Geek.

The idea about the blood magic and the Wall is my own.


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